!' 


CONSTANCE   TRESCOT 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 


H  IKovel 


BY 


S.  WEIR  MITCHELL,  M.D.,  LL.D. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1905 


Copyright,  1905,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Published  March,  1905 


THE  DE  VINNE  PRESS 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 


4776 4G 


CONSTANCE     TEESCOT 


R.  HOOD  will  see  you  in  the  library, 
sir." 

George  Trescot  followed  the  servant, 
and  when  left  alone  began  to  wander 
about  a  large  room  which  looked  out 
on  the  north  coast  of  Massachusetts  Bay.  Why  it 
was  called  a  library  might  well  have  puzzled  the 
young  man.  There  were  few  books  except  those  of 
reference,  but  on  chair  and  table  were  mill  and  rail 
way  reports,  and  newspapers  in  superabundance. 

As  the  clock  struck  the  hour  of  noon  a  woman 

% 

of  some  twenty-seven  years  entered  the  room.  Hear 
ing  the  door  open,  Trescot  turned  from  a  brief  and 
hopeless  effort  to  comprehend  the  genealogical  tree 
of  the  Hood  family,  which  hung  on  the  wall  in 
much  splendor  of  heraldic  blazonry. 

Miss  Hood  came  in  smiling,  as  if  she  had  just 
been  amused  and  was  enjoying  the  remembrance. 
Her  face  had— what  is  more  often  found  in  plain 
women  than  in  those  to  whom  nature  has  been  more 
bountiful— great  power  of  expressing  both  kindli 
ness  and  mirth.  She  was  slight,  but  of  admirable 


&Ne      TS'ESCOT 


figure,  and  possessed  the  mysterious  gift  of  grace. 
For  the  rest,  she  was  unselfish,  seriously  religious, 
and  perplexed  at  times  by  the  comic  aspect  of  things, 
hardly  realizing  the  fact  that  a  ready  sense  of  humor 
had  often  been  as  useful  in  helping  her  to  endure 
the  lesser  trials  of  existence  as  the  religious  faith 
which  she  held  to  with  the  simple  trust  of  a  child. 
Life  presented  itself  to  her  in  relentless  simplicity, 
and  consisted  of  things  right  and  things  wrong,  with 
over-sensitive  self-reproach  when  either  seemed  too 
amusing.  She  was,  socially  speaking,  fearless,  and 
occasionally  outspoken  to  a  degree  which  embar 
rassed  others,  but  never  Susan  Hood. 

"Good  morning,  major,"  she  said.  "I  am  glad 
to  see  you.  I  consider  myself  neglected  of  late." 

"I  shall  be  the  best  of  brothers-in-law,  Miss 
Susan." 

"Oh,  that  is  all  very  well.  The  future  does  not 
always  pay  the  debts  of  the  present.  You  will  be 
as  good  as  my  sister  will  let  you  be  ;  but  I  am  easily 
satisfied." 

"I  ought  to  be,"  he  said.  "And,  by  the  way,  I 
am  only  Mr.  Trescot,  not  Major.  These  labels  should 
have  gone  when  the  war  ended;  but  I  suppose  men 
like  titles.  I  shed  mine  long  ago." 

"You  are  quite  right,"  she  returned,  smiling  with 
the  aid  of  a  large  and  expressive  mouth  and  show  of 
rather  irregular,  very  white  teeth.  "I  see  that  I 
am  just  in  time  to  save  you  a  fall  from  the  ge 
nealogical  tree  of  the  Hoods.  I  incline  to  think  some 
of  the  limbs  a  trifle  insecure.  My  uncle  climbs  it 
at  least  once  a  week,  and  believes  in  its  fabulous 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  5 

fruit  as  he  does  in  nothing  else.  I  told  him  last 
night  that  it  was  more  genial  than  logical.  If  he 
had  understood  me,  I  do  not  know  what  would  have 
happened." 

Trescot  laughed.  "Mr.  Hood  explained  it  to  me 
last  week.  I  nearly  fell  asleep  on  the  top  branch." 

' '  Did  you  ?  You  would  never  have  been  forgiven. 
It  is  still  growing;  the  mustard-seed  was  nothing 
to  it."  Then  the  further  temptations  offered  by 
the  comparison  presented  themselves  to  her  as  ir 
reverent,  and  she  said: 

"By  the  way,  I  am  sent  by  my  uncle  to  entertain 
you,  as  he  is  just  now  engaged.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  is  engaged  in  settling  what  he  will  say  to 
you.  He  is  enjoying  it,  too.  Sit  down;  you  will 
have  to  put  up  with  me  for  as  long  as  he  chooses 
to  remain  agreeably  perplexed." 

"Perplexed?"  said  the  young  man,  as  he  seated 
himself.  "What  is  there  to  perplex?  It  seems  to 
me  very  simple." 

"And  to  me.  You  have  asked  my  sister  to  marry 
you.  She  desires  to  do  so.  My  uncle  says  he  is  old, 
and  that  he  has  entitled  himself  to  our  society  un 
til  he  dies.  I  have  told  him  that  if  he  would  kindly 
set  a  time  for  that  event  we  should  know  what  to 
do,  and  that  he  was  pretty  secure  as  to  me.  He  did 
not  like  it.  Nothing  is  simple  to  my  uncle." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Trescot,  laughing.  "The 
asking  him  seemed  to  me  a  mere  formal  matter. 
Constance  is  old  enough  to  know  her  own  mind,  and, 
I  fancy,  to  have  her  own  way.  I  did  not  ask  of  him 
any  favors." 


6  CONSTANCE   TRESCOT 

"They  should  not  need  to  be  asked;  but  he  will 
be  sure  to  think  you  expect  him  to  provide  for  Con 
stance,— as,  in  fact,  he  ought  to  do." 

"I  expect  nothing  of  the  kind,  nor  does  Con 
stance.  We  are  prepared  to  wait  until  I  can  offer 
her  a  home.  That  may  be  in  a  year,  or  even  two 
years.  There  is  no  need  to  discuss  it." 

' '  Indeed !  Wait  until  you  know  my  uncle  better. 
He  discusses  everything.  He  would  discuss  whether 
two  and  two  make  four.  He  constructs  theories,  as 
he  calls  them,  and  when  it  is  needful  to  act  does 
not  always  abide  by  them,  which,  I  assure  you,  is, 
on  the  whole,  rather  fortunate,  as  I  hope  you  may 
discover. ' ' 

"Well,  on  this  subject,  Miss  Hood,  I  have  also 
my  theory,  and  an  abiding  faith  in  it." 

She  laughed  merrily  and  said :  ' '  Wait  a  bit.  You 
have  as  yet  seen  only  one  side  of  my  uncle.  He  can 
be,  as  you  know,  a  pleasant,  rather  cynical  old  gen 
tleman.  Now  you  present  yourself  to  him  under 
a  novel  aspect,  and  he  will  be  sure  to  construct  what 
he  calls  a  theory  for  himself  and  you,  to  fit  the  oc 
casion.  It  will  be  something  like  this— I  may  as 
well  prepare  you:  'My  theory,  sir,  is  that  people 
never  change.  These  young  women  have  always 
had  all  the  money  they  wanted ;  therefore,  they  will 
always  want  it.  It  must  be  clear  to  you  that  we 
shall  need  to  discuss  the  matter  at  length— at  length, 
sir.  Money  in  my— sir,  in  my  opinion,  is  develop 
mental;  without  money,.'  etc.  He  will  be  delight 
fully  irrelevant.  I  wish  I  could  overhear  the  inter 
view.  He  really  does  not  care  about  money;  but 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  7 

he  likes  to  talk  about  it.     It  may  be  he  will  light 
on  something  else.    You  will  have  to  be  patient." 

''I  can  be  that.  But  as  concerns  money,  I  do  not 
want  it— or,  rather,  I  want  it  very  much,  but  not 
from  him.  I  mean  in  time  to  get  it  myself.  Con 
found  it!  Pardon  me,  but  really— 

"Oh,  that  is  a  very  mild  expletive;  if  it  applies 
to  Uncle  Rufus,  it  is  quite  unnecessary:  he  is  just 
now  sufficiently  confounded.  And,  after  all,  if  you 
were  an  old  man  like  my  uncle,  would  you  willingly 
part  with  so  delightful  an  inmate  as  my  sister?" 

"No,"  laughed  Trescot;  "no,  indeed." 

"Well,  that  is  honest.  You  may  be  surprised  to 
learn  that  he  would  object  quite  as  nftich  to  part 
with  me  as  to  part  with  my  sister.  I  am  not  mali 
cious  enough  to  ask  you  to  explain  that. ' ' 

Trescot  was  relieved  from  need  to  reply  when, 
awaiting  no  answer,  she  continued : 

"The  fact  is,  he  likes  me  because  we  disagree 
radically  about  everything,  from  religion  to  politics, 
and  Constance  because  they  agree  about  most  things, 
except  politics.  There  they  are  far  apart.  His 
opinions  about  the  war  have  been  to  both  of  us 
a  matter  of  real  unhappiness.  Had  he  lived  in  the 
South  he  would  have  been  bitter  against  secession. 
He  is  always  in  the  opposition,  but  he  despises  peo 
ple  who  yield." 

"Then  he  will  certainly  fall  in  love  with  me. 
Thank  you  for  the  hint." 

"Oh,  I  did  not  mean  it  for  that,  and  I  suspect  it 
was  not  needed.  After  all,  it  is  not  that  you  have 
no  money  that  troubles  my  uncle;  it  is  really  far 


8  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

more  the  idea  that  Constance  is  ungrateful,  and 
shows  great  lack  of  taste  in  being  willing  to  desert 
him  for  you,  or  for  any  one.  I  think  I  hear  his 
voice.  I  must  go;  but  when  you  are  through  with 
uncle  my  sister  wants  to  see  you  in  the  garden. 
If  you  make  yourself  very  disagreeable  you  will 
find  that  Uncle  Rufus  will  find  some  ingenious  ex 
cuse  for  being  reasonable.  He  will  think  it  proper, 
after  he  has  posed  a  little  as  a  shrewd  man  of  busi 
ness,  to  pose  as  the  good  uncle." 

Trescot  stood  with  her  in  the  window  recess  while 
they  talked,  and  now,  turning,  glanced  at  the 
shrewd,  kind  face,  with  its  readiness  of  humorous 
comment,  and  said:  "I  should  like  to  hear  what 
might  be  the  character  of  George  Trescot  you  would 
present  to  Mr.  Hood." 

''Would  you,  indeed?"  she  returned,  looking  up. 
It  was  a  strong  face  she  saw,  and  more  serious  just 
now  than  the  quality  of  the  question  suggested. 
Yet  it  smiled  in  pleased  fellowship  of  mirth  as  she 
answered,  laughing: 

"Ah,  there  is  my  uncle!  I  have  half  a  mind  not 
to  tell  you." 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  not  insist.  You  are  sure 
to  be  painfully  honest,  and  I  may  have  cause  to  re 
gret." 

"But  I  will.  I  should  say— well,  I  should  say— 
'Uncle  Rufus,  I  like  him.'  " 

"Thank  you.  I  shall  put  that  with  what  Sheridan 
once  said  to  me." 

"What  did  he  say?    Do  tell  me." 

"Oh,  he  said,  'That  was  well  done,  Major  Tres 
cot;  very  well  done.'  I  blushed  like  a  girl." 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  9 

"What  had  you  done?" 

' '  What  had  I  done  ?  Ah, ' '  he  laughed, ' '  you  must 
ask  Sheridan." 

"But  I  may  never  see  him."  She  was  curious 
about  large  things,  rarely  about  little  ones  or  mere 
social  trivialities.  "Of  course  you  will  tell  me." 

"Perhaps  if,  some  day,  on  trial,  you" prove  to  be 
a  quite  perfect  sister-in-law." 

* '  Am  I  not  good  enough  now  ?  I  said  I  liked  you. 
Is  n't  that  a  form  of  goodness?  I  assure  you  that 
there  are  no  better  judges  of  men  than  old  maids 
and  sisters-in-law." 

' i  Indeed !  But  you  are  only  a  sort  of  brevet  sister- 
in-law.  And  why— shall  I  dare  to  say— are  old  maids 
good  judges  of  men?" 

"Oh,  they  look  down  from  a  heaven  of  neutral 
ity  where  there  is  no  giving  in  marriage.  Goodness ! 
what  am  I  saying?" 

Hearing  her  uncle's  step  on  the  stair,  she  turned 
to  leave.  Trescot  saw  with  approval  her  trim,  neat 
figure,  and  said,  laughing,  "The  basis  of  opinion 
is  not  altogether  secure." 

"Nonsense!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  am  already  on 
the  family  tree,  my  destiny  predetermined,— 'Susan 
Hood,  spinster.'  But  here  is  Uncle  Rufus.  If  he 
does  not  first  indulge  in  vain  genealogies  I  shall 
be  surprised.  Good-by!  I  wonder  what  St.  Paul 
meant  by  vain  genealogies?" 

As  she  spoke,  a  small,  very  thin  man  of  some 
seventy  years  entered,  with  a  too  obvious  affectation 
of  youthful  briskness. 

"I  leave  Mr.  Trescot  to  your  tender  mercies, 
uncle." 


10  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"Ah,  good  morning.  Fine  day.  Sit  down,"  said 
Mr.  Hood,  as  she  left  them.  "Pray,  sit  down."  He 
began  at  once,  with  an  air  of  decision,  "I  suppose 
this  matter  of  which  my  niece  has  spoken  to  me 
appears  to  you  very  simple." 

"It  did  not  at  one  time.  It  does  now.  I  have 
asked  Miss  Constance  to  be  my  wife.  She  has  done 
me  the  honor  to  say  yes.  What  else  is  there?" 

"Everything,  sir;  everything.  I  do  not  propose 
that  my  niece  shall  leave  me.  She  owes  to  me  the 
affection  of  a  child.  I  am  old  and  cannot  live  long. 
Her  sense  of  duty  should  forbid  her  to  desert  me. 
If  it  does  not,  I  must  act  for  her,  and  prevent  what 
is  both  criminal  and  foolish.  I  must  create  for  her 
a  virtue  which  she  has  not." 

"But,  Mr.  Hood—"  said  Trescot,  raising  a  hand 
in  appeal. 

"No,  sir;  do  not  interrupt  me.  I  object  to  it 
altogether.  You  have  no  money,  and  she  has  none. 
You  know  nothing  of  each  other— nothing.  As  to 
waiting  a  year— two  years— until  you  can  provide 
for  her,  it  is  nonsense.  When  she  mentioned  this 
highly  absurd  proposition  I  told  her  as  much.  Now, 
sir,  you  have  my  decision,  and  my  niece  has  already 
had  it." 

"May  I  ask  what  was  Miss  Constance's  reply?" 

"She  said  she  meant  to  marry  you  if  she  had  to 
sew  for  a  living.  By  George!  she  can't  sew  on  a 
button.  I  was  quite  prepared  for  her  reply.  She 
has  the  obstinacy  of  my  people. ' ' 

"Then,  Mr.  Hood,  you  may  rest  assured  that  I 
shall  marry  her.  I  can  wait." 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  11 

"But  I  cannot  wait.  Do  you  suppose  I  mean  to 
have  a  love-sick  girl  maundering  about  my  house 
for  two  years  ?  No,  sir ;  you  do  not  know  her.  From 
a  child  she  has  been  obstinate  when  she  wanted  any 
thing  ;  I  should  have  no  peace. ' ' 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,"  said  Trescot,  much 
amused;  "but  I  can  only  repeat  what  I  have  said 
already.  Unless  Miss  Constance  changes  her 
mind-" 

"She  never  changes  her  mind;  we  never  do— it 
is  a  family  trait." 

"I  hope  not;  and  in  that  case  I  trust  you  will  see 
this  matter  in  a  more  favorable  light.  But  in  any 
case,  to  be  frank,  I  mean  to  marry  her." 

"I  suppose,  then,  there  is  no  help  for  it,"  said 
the  elder  man,  with  a  curious  collapse  of  resolution. 
"  I  am  old  and  feeble '  '—which  was  true.  ' '  The  girl 
is  ungrateful.  I  rely  upon  her  for  everything. 
Susan  is  wrapped  up  in  her  poor  and  her  parson- 
she  calls  him  her  rector,  I  believe.  I  find  it  incon 
sistent  with  my  sense  of  duty  to  let  you  go  on  in 
blind  ignorance.  You  will  discover  Constance  to 
be  efficient,  obstinate;  and  as  I  am  told  by  Susan 
that  you  are  what  is  called  religious,  you  ought  also 
to  know  that  my  niece  and  I  agree  in  the  entire 
absence  of  that  adjective." 

"That,"  said  Trescot,  coldly,  "is  a  matter  I  pre 
fer  not  to  discuss. ' '  He  knew  very  well  by  this  time 
that  the  woman  he  loved  had,  unlike  himself,  no 
distinct  creed. 

"Well,  I  desire  that  you  should  understand  her. 
She  is  very  like  me." 


12  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

" Indeed!"  he  returned,  much  amused.  "Then  I 
shall  be  sure  to  end  by  liking  you,  Mr.  Hood.  I 
presume  that  I  may  consider  it  as  settled. ' ' 

"No,  sir;  I  may  yield,  but  I  will  never  consent; 
and  I  consider  it  my  duty  to  warn  you.  I  have  said 
as  much.  This  girl,  this  woman,  is  a  creature  of 
instincts.  As  a  child  her  temper  was  terrible ;  under 
my  wise  rule  it  has  been  tamed.  She  loves  and 
hates  with  animal  fidelity;  and  once  she  is  set  on 
doing  anything,  neither  saint  nor  devil  can  change 
her." 

"That  is  rather  gratifying,"  said  Trescot,  be 
tween  suppressed  mirth  and  annoyance.  Certainly 
this  was  an  extraordinary  old  man. 

She  was  an  unreasoning  Union  woman,  and  I  am 
of  opinion  that  the  South  was  altogether  in  the 
right.  But  neither  reason  nor  respect  for  me  has 
ever  altered  what  she  calls  her  views." 

"You  will  pardon  me  if  I  say  that  I  am  very 
glad  to  hear  it." 

"Ah,  well,  well,  that  is  as  you  please.  A  pity 
you  agree.  It  is  a  theory  of  mine  that  difference  of 
opinion  is  a  basis  of  true  happiness  in  married  life ; 
otherwise  it  becomes  monotonous." 

Trescot  sat  still,  studying  the  self-pleased  face, 
and  amused  himself  with  thought  of  the  mirth 
with  which  Susan  would  have  heard  her  uncle  giv 
ing  Constance  a  character  for  her  new  place.  He 
kept  a  respectful  silence  as  the  old  man  wandered 
on;  but  by  what  paths  he  reached  an  expression  of 
opinion  as  to  the  constitutional  rights  of  States  and 
cities  to  secede,  Trescot  never  could  remember.  At 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  13 

last  he  was  given  to  understand  that  the  right  of 
States  to  secede  was  based  on  the  undoubted  right 
of  individuals  to  secede  from  States.  Here,  as  the 
old  man's  voice  rose  to  political  levels  of  emphasis, 
it  recalled  Trescot  from  the  dreaming  mood  which 
was  taking  him  somewhere  into  the  fairyland  of  love. 

He  recovered  power  to  listen,  but  at  last,  disap 
pointed  by  the  absence  of  exhilarating  difference 
of  opinion,  Mr.  Hood  said:  "We  seem  to  have 
strayed.  I  was  about  to  add  that  my  niece  and  I 
have  always  agreed,  except  as  regards  one  subject; 
and,  I  regret  to  say,  as  concerns  that  matter,  even 
the  unfortunate  closure  of  the  war  has  in  no  degree 
abated  her  feeling— a  child,  sir,  instinctive  and,  as 
I  observed,  obstinate.  I  think  I  have  already  dwelt 
on  that  peculiarity." 

"Yes,  I  so  understood  you.  And  now,  Mr.  Hood, 
that  you  have  sufficiently  warned  and  informed  me, 
and  have  decided  to  consent— I  beg  pardon,  yield— 

1  i  I  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  sometimes  give  way, 
but  I  never  yield.  I  do  not  like  this  marriage.  But 
I  do  not  propose  that  you  shall  cause  my  niece  to 
quarrel  with  me.  She  cannot  stay  here  and  make 
me  uncomfortable;  she  cannot  marry  you  and 
starve;  I  won't  permit  it." 

' '  Then  may  I  ask  what  you  propose  to  do  ? " 

"Well,  first  I  desire  to  state  that,  although  I  am 
said  to  be  a  rich  man,  I  do  not  intend  to  leave  to 
my  nieces  more  than  a  very  small  competence.  I 
have  a  theory  on  this  subject.  It  is  interesting.  At 
another  time  I  shall  be  happy  to  set  it  before  you— 
at  length." 


14  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

Trescot  rose.  "I  assure  you,  sir,  that  I  should 
have  been  glad  to  feel  that  in  case  of  anything  go 
ing  wrong  with  my  power  to  provide  for  my  wife, 
—such  as  my  death,  or  what  not,— she  would  be  at 
ease.  I  should  be  a  fool  if  I  told  you  I  do  not 
care  what  you  do  with  your  money;  but  if  you  im 
agine,  as  you  seem  to  take  for  granted,  that  it  is 
influencing  me  in  my  relation  to  Miss  Constance, 
we  had  better  drop  the  matter  of  money  alto 
gether.  ' ' 

"But,"  said  Hood,  testily,  "I  am  not  going  to  be 
bullied  into  dropping  it.  I  mean  to  have  my  own 
way. ' ' 

Trescot  was  a  man  not  merely  good-tempered,  but 
of  a  certain  gay  sweetness  of  disposition  which  cap 
tured  men  and  women.  He  began,  however,  to  be 
a  little  impatient,  and  in  reply  said : 

"I  have  been  for  a  half-hour  endeavoring,  sir,  to 
find  out  what  it  is  you  want.  That  I  am  to  marry 
appears  to  be  settled." 

"I  suppose  so.  I  know  Constance  too  well  to 
oppose  it.  I  am  told  by  my  niece  that  you  can 
not  marry  at  present.  But  if  you  choose  to  accept 
the  position  of  my  agent  in  St.  Ann,  Missouri, 
I  will  insure  my  niece  an  income  for  five  years — 
say,  two  thousand  dollars.  You  would  be  called 
upon  to  manage  my  property,  and  I  should  expect 
that  you  would  eject  squatters,  bring  suits,  and 
otherwise  care  for  my  interests."  He  fell  back  in 
his  chair  with  an  air  of  having  settled  the  matter. 

For  a  moment  Trescot  was  silent,  and  regarded 
the  feeble,  shrunken  old  man,  who  sat  watching 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  15 

him  and  pulling  nervously  at  his  thin  gray  side- 
whiskers.  With  some  sense  of  the  niece  being  sold 
to  him  for  a  consideration,  he  returned  quietly: 

"No;  I  do  not  wish  to  leave  Boston.  I  am  not 
a  land  agent,  and,  to  be  plain,  Mr.  Hood,  I  cannot 
accept  your  offer." 

"But  you  will." 

"No,  I  think  not;  I  cannot.  What  you  please 
to  give  your  niece  or  not  to  give  her  must  have  no 
relation  to  any  business  interests  you  may  choose 
to  confide  to  me,  in  the  very  doubtful  case  of  my 
considering  your  offer." 

"You  had  better  talk  first  to  Constance.  I  think 
she  must  know  you  already,  for  she  declared  that 
you  would  not  accept  my  offer,  and  then  she  made 
me  another." 

"Indeed!"     Trescot  did  not  like  this  any  better. 

' '  She  says  that  if  I  give  her  two  thousand  a  year, 
and  put  my  affairs  at  St.  Ann  in  your  hands  on  a 
•pure  business  basis,  you  will,  perhaps,  think  of  it." 

Trescot  would  have  much  preferred  to  have  had 
the  offer  made  directly  to  himself.  He  said  he  would 
speak  to  Constance  about  it.  It  was  not  a  thing  to 
settle  without  time  and  thought. 

"But  it  is  settled,"  said  the  old  man.  "You 
will  find  that  out.  Constance  usually  knows  her 
own  mind." 

"But  not  mine,"  returned  Trescot,  rising.  He 
had  had  by  this  time  as  much  of  the  uncle's  inde 
cisions  and  feeble  display  of  business  sharpness  as 
a  nearly  perfect  temper  would  bear.  He  had  learned 
that  his  own  tender  and  respectful  love  had  been 


16  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

met  by  a  passion  of  affection  which  had  seemed  to 
take  as  small  thought  of  the  future  as  a  bird  might 
do,  and  yet  here  was  a  certain  competence  in  her 
dealings  with  her  uncle  for  which  he  was  unpre 
pared. 

As  he  went  away  to  meet  her  he  said  to  himself, 
"It  seems  reasonable,"  but  felt  again  that  he  should 
have  preferred  to  be  left  to  arrange  matters  involv 
ing  business  and  so  complete  a  change  of  residence. 


L 
k 


II 


>EORGE  TRESCOT  was,  like  Constance, 
an  orphan,  and  of  the  same  old  New 
England  breed  as  the  woman  he  loved. 
With  slender  means,  he  had  made  his 
way  in  college,  unassisted,  by  aiding 
duller  men  as  a  tutor,  and  had  passed  through 
the  law  school  with  unusual  distinction.  Then  the 
war  broke  out,  and,  enlisting  in  the  ranks,  he  rose 
rapidly,  as  death  cleared  the  way,  until  in  the 
final  struggle  he  was  so  wounded  as  partially  to  dis 
able  his  right  shoulder,  which  he  commonly  eased 
by  carrying  his  hand  caught  in  his  waistcoat.  Al 
though  five  years  had  gone  by,  at  times  it  gave  him 
pain,  and  he  felt  this  as  he  passed  through  the 
drawing-room  and  out  into  the  garden.  Constance 's 
appearance  of  being  tall  struck  him  as  she  passed 
across  the  path  and  disappeared  behind  a  row  of 
shrubs  which  sheltered  the  garden  from  the  rough 
sport  of  the  east  winds.  In  reality,  admirable  sym 
metry  was  responsible,  for  she  was  not  of  more  than 
full  middle  height. 

As  he  turned  to  meet  her  she  was  joyously  flushed, 
a  glad  welcome  in  her  eyes.  In  a  moment  she  was  in 
his  arms.  "A  whole  week!"  she  cried. 

Conscious  that  the  embrace  was  as  much  hers  as 
his,  he  cast  an  uneasy  glance  about  him,  fearful  of 
2  17 


18  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

profane  eyes,  of  which  she  was,  to  appearance, 
heedless. 

The  moment  was  expressive.  He  loved  her  with 
some  sense  that  she  was  a  thing  apart  from  other 
women.  A  great  respect  went  with  it— a  delicate, 
shy  tenderness  which  passed  into  delicious  wonder 
at  the  deep  passion  which  he  had  awakened. 
They  had  met  first  at  a  dance,  where,  as  he  crossed 
the  room,  an  awkward  partner  in  the  waltz  had 
brought  her  roughly  against  his  wounded  shoulder. 
In  extreme  pain  he  had  dropped  into  a  chair.  She 
caught  sight  of  his  face.  "Who  is  he?"  she  said. 
Her  partner  replied,  "He  is  George  Trescot,  my  old 
major  in  the  Sixth.  I  must  have  hurt  his  wounded 
arm.  Excuse  me  a  moment." 

"No,  take  me  to  him." 

"Trescot,"  said  his  friend,  "I  am  sorry;  I  was 
awkward. ' ' 

"May  I,  too,  apologize?"  said  she. 

As  they  spoke,  Trescot,  pale  with  pain,  looked 
up  and  tried  to  rise.  He  met  a  pair  of  violet  eyes 
and  a  face  of  anxious  interest  he  was  never  to 
forget. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said;  "I  shall  be  all  right  in 
a  little  while.  It  was  worth  some  pain  to  know  Miss 
Hood." 

' '  Thank  you.    That  is  a  great  deal  to  say. ' ' 

He  asked  for  a  glass  of  wine,  and,  as  his  friend 
went  for  it,  she  sat  down  beside  him. 

1  i  I  am  more  sorry, ' '  she  said,  ' '  than  I  can  tell  you. 
Were  you  hurt  in  the  war?  I  think  Mr.  Ware 
said  so." 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  19 

"Yes;  but  pardon  me,  I  cannot  talk— not  now,  not 
just  yet.  But  do  not  go." 

She  had  no  such  intention.  She  was  silent,  watch 
ing  his  set  face,  sensitively  aware  of  some  eager  wish 
to  help  him. 

His  friend  returned.  Trescot  took  the  wine  and 
said  at  last,  as  they  rose,  "I  am  better,  but  I  think 
I  must  go." 

She  said,  ''My  sister  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
you;  we  are  always  at  home  on  Monday  after 
noons.  ' ' 

"Thank  you,"  he  returned;  "I  shall  hope  to  be 
better  company  when  we  meet  again." 

There  was  no  indecision  about  this  love-affair. 
In  two  weeks  they  were  engaged.  She  had  often 
said  to  herself  that  she  would  be  hard  to  please, 
and  that  only  a  long  acquaintance  would  justify 
a  woman  in  giving  herself  to  a  man.  She  asked  her 
self  no  questions  as  to  the  unreasoning  passion  which 
made  easy  for  Trescot  what  so  many  had  found 
hard.  Their  mutual  attraction  had  the  inevitability 
of  the  physical  forces.  From  the  moment  of  their 
first  meeting,  Constance  Hood  was  the  realization 
of  his  dream  of  the  most  stately  womanhood.  The 
impression  he  made  on  her  was  as  sudden.  He  was 
not  over  her  own  height,  slightly  made,  and,  just 
then,  even  delicate  in  appearance.  The  look  of  in 
tellect  and  power  which  a  few  faces  show  with 
features  of  great  refinement  gave  added  charm  to 
manners  which  were  gently  formal,  with  some  flavor 
of  a  more  leisurely  day  when  men  had  time  to  be 
courteous. 


20  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

The  contrast  between  his  frail  look  and  the  stories 
men  told  of  his  fearlessness  in  the  great  war  had  its 
influence  on  the  woman  who  had  broken  into  a  pas 
sion  of  anger  and  grief  when  the  news  of  Sumter 
revealed  the  power  of  sentiment  to  stir  her,  as  it 
stirred  and  energized  the  manhood  of  a  great  na 
tion,  presumed  by  those  who  thus  challenged  it  to  be 
given  over  to  the  ledger  and  day-book. 

Susan  Hood  watched  with  surprise,  anxiety,  and 
a  little  amusement  the  progress  of  a  love-affair 
which  did  not  explain  itself  to  one  who  considered 
marriage  as  a  matter  not  to  be  entered  into  lightly 
or  unadvisedly,  and  who  had  had  no  personal  expe 
rience  to  shock  her  with  the  discovery  of  passions  in 
herself  or  another.  To  the  very  humorous,  love 
comes  with  difficulty. 

Very  soon  Constance  talked  to  her  with  strange 
unreserve.  |This  abandonment  to  love,  so  profound, 
so  abrupt,  shocked  Susan.  A  man  might  thus  ex 
hibit  affection,  not  a  woman.  Needless  to  say  that 
it  was  for  a  time  only  the  sister  who  thus  saw  and 
heard  and  wondered,  dismayed  at  a  passion  as  wild 
as  that  of  Juliet.] 

WHEN  Trescot,  having  left  her  uncle,  found  Con 
stance,  the  lovers  sat  down  beyond  the  garden,  be 
fore  them  the  quiet  of  an  unruffled  sea  and  the 
eastward  glow  of  the  setting  sun.  The  woman's 
hand  sought  his  and  held  it.  ' '  Has  uncle  told  you  ? ' ' 
she  said. 

"Your  uncle  is  an  amazing  person,  but  I  learned 
at  last  that  you  and  he  had  settled  the  matter/' 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  21 

She  was  aware  at  once  that  he  was  not  entirely 
satisfied,  and  said : 

"Oh,  of  course,  George,  it  rests  with  you.  If 
you  accept  we  can  be  married  soon,  and  if  you 
say  no  we  must  wait  a  year,  or  even  two  years. 
How  can  I  be  without  you  so  long?  My  uncle 
remains  here  in  the  country  all  the  year,  as  you 
know;  and  now  that  I  have  disturbed  his  theory 
as  to  what  my  life  was  to  be,  I  shall  be  made  to 
suffer." 

"  But  we  would  be  near,  and  I  should  see  you 
often— very  often." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  it  would  be  hard— oh,  harder 
than  you  can  know;  and  my  uncle  is  never  done 
with  a  subject;  my  life  would  be  made  intolerable. 
And  then,  after  all,  we  should  not  be  there— I 
mean  at  St.  Ann — always;  you  would  succeed,  and 
some  day  we  should  come  home."  She  made  it  all 
seem  clear,  definite,  and  certain.  Indeed,  it  so  ap 
peared  to  her. 

It  seemed  much  more  vague  to  the  young  man, 
but  the  bribe  she  offered  was  too  much  for  him  to 
resist. 

"We  should  go  among  a  strange  and  hostile  peo 
ple,  Constance— I  a  Northern  officer,  you  with  your 
strong  feeling  about  the  South." 

' '  I  should  learn  to  hold  my  tongue,  and  you  would 
be  sure  to  make  friends." 

"Perhaps."  He  remained  silent  a  moment,  and 
then  went  on.  "I  have  rarely  had  doubts  as  to  any 
future,  dear,  except  as  concerned  whether  I  could 
make  you  love  me.  But  this  future  of  a  life  at  St. 


22  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

Ann  seems  to  me  a  very  doubtful  matter.  I  am 
to  displace  the  present  agent  and— 

"But  Mr.  Averill— my  uncle  calls  him,  with  re 
spect,  major-general—Mr.  Averill  desires  to  give  up 
the  care  of  uncle's  lands.  He  did  not  tell  you  that, 
I  am  sure." 

"No,  he  did  not.  Of  course  that  somewhat  sim 
plifies  the  matter.  But  to  act  for  a  man  like  Mr. 
Hood  may  well  have  its  difficulties." 

1 '  I  do  not  think  so.  He  always  backs  down  before 
a  resolute  man,  or  even  an  obstinate  woman.  You 
will  have  your  own  way,  and  we  shall  be  so  happy, 
George. ' ' 

"Of  that  I  am  sure,  there  or  anywhere;  and  yet  I 
am  in  reason,  and  above  all  because  I  love  you, 
bound  to  think  of  the  future.  I  am  naturally  san 
guine,  Constance.  Even  in  the  darkest  hours  of  the 
war  I  was  that ;  but  in  this  matter  I  am  not  sanguine, 
and  if  you  were  to  ask  me  why,  I  could  not  tell  you. 
I  have  a  feeling— ' '  and  here  he  paused. 

"A  feeling,  George?" 

"Yes,  like  that  I  had  once  on  South  Mountain.  I 
was  about  to  ride  on  to  a  hillock  for  a  better  view 
of  the  enemy's  line,  when  I  felt  for  a  moment  a 
curious  reluctance.  I  pulled  up  my  horse,  half 
surprised  at  myself— and  then,  with  a  sense  of  the 
absurdity  of  the  thing,  I  rode  on.  As  my  horse 
moved  across  the  space  between,  a  shell  exploded  on 
the  hillock." 

"Oh,  George!  But  it  is  n't  like  that— was  not 
that  a  pure  superstition?" 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  23 

"Yes,  very  absurd,  utterly  ridiculous  in  its  ap 
plication  here ;  I  ought  not  to  have  said  it. ' ' 

"It  does  not  in  the  least  trouble  me,  although, 
like  my  uncle,  I  have  my  own  little  thrills  about 
thirteen  at  table,  and  all  such  nonsense.  My  uncle 
says—"  and  she  stopped. 

"Well,  dear?" 

"Oh,  he  says  that  a  person  may  reason  himself 
out  of  religious  beliefs,  but  can  never  quite  get  rid 
of  these  little  half-beliefs." 

"I  think,"  he  returned,  "that  people  who  are 
really  and  thoughtfully  religious  have  least  of  these 
remnants  of  a  more  ignorant  day." 

"And  yet,  George,"  she  returned,  laughingly, 
"you  obeyed  an  impulse  quite  without  reason;  I 
should  hardly  call  it  a  superstition." 

"No;  you  are  right.  But  to  go  back  to  what  is 
for  you  and  me  a  very  serious  question.  I  believe 
now  that  I  may  accept  your  uncle's  offer.  But  I 
must  think  it  over  when  those  dear  eyes  are  not 
looking  into  mine,  those  lips  saying,  'Come,  let  us 
go  away  and  be  all  of  life  to  each  other.'  Let  us 
drop  it  now  and  talk  of  other  things.  I  have  to  go 
back  to  Boston  by  the  late  train.  Within  a  day  I 
shall. write  to  you  and  to  your  uncle.  I  must  talk 
it  over  with  an  older  lawyer." 

She  was  satisfied,  and  saw,  or  thought  she  saw, 
that  he  would  be  of  her  opinion.  She  had  her  own 
reasons  for  desiring  to  have  no  such  delay  as  he 
would  have  tranquilly  accepted.  He  had  all  through 
life  been  denying  himself  this  or  that  to-day  in 


24  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

order  that  he  might  be  more  secure  of  to-morrow's 
wants.  Such  a  passion  as  possessed  her  with  the 
power  of  a  primal  instinct  was  not  yet  in  him  vic 
torious  over  all  rational  considerations.  He  knew 
little  of  women,  and  nothing  of  the  woman  who 
desires  to  absorb,  so  to  speak,  all  of  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  of  the  one  man,  and  who,  as  time  goes 
on,  becomes  jealous  of  his  friends,  and  even  of  his 
work,  and,  at  last,  of  every  hour  not  given  to  her. 
Such  women  are  happily  rare,  but  are  now  and  then 
to  be  found.  From  the  hour  she  first  saw  him, 
frail  and  pallid  from  suffering,  a  vast  protecting 
eagerness  arose  in  her  mind.  As  her  kinship  of  pity 
blossomed  into  love,  the  desire  to  be  with  him  and 
watch  over  what  seemed  to  her  in  her  new  anxiety 
a  more  delicate  life  than  it  really  was,  supplied  her 
with  a  reason  for  early  marriage.  She  had  never 
asked  herself  why  she  had  been  so  suddenly  cap 
tured;  but  as  time  went  on  she  knew  that  she  had 
drawn  a  prize  in  the  uncertain  lottery  of  love,  and 
felt  that  his  charm  of  manner,  his  distinction,  the 
delicacy  and  refinement  with  which  he  had  pleaded 
for  her  love,  had  fully  justified  her  choice. 

After  further  talk  he  left  her  at  twilight,  and 
at  the  last  moment,  in  haste  to  catch  his  train.  She 
watched  him  as  he  walked  swiftly  away,  noting  the 
arm  caught  for  relieving  support  in  his  waistcoat, 
the  upright,  soldierly  carriage  of  figure,  well  built, 
but  lacking  flesh.  She  said : 

"Ah!  but  I  love  you  well;  how  well,  you  do  not 
yet  know,  George  Trescot,— but  you  will— you 
shall." 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  25 

As  he  turned  at  the  garden  gate  to  look  back,  she 
cried,  as  she  ran  toward  him,  "You  forgot,  George." 

"What?"  he  said. 

"To  kiss  me  again." 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  she  received 
a  letter,  with  which  she  fled  to  the  rocks  above  the 
sea.  She  tore  it  open  and  read: 

"DEAREST  CONSTANCE: 

"I  wonder  how  you  got  that  pleasantly  prophetic 
name.  You  must  tell  me. 

* '  Yes,  I  have  made  up  my  mind ;  my  friend  has 
urgently  advised  me  to  accept  your  uncle's  offer. 
He  thinks  the  position  affords  chances  I  ought  not 
to  decline,  and  with  your  ever  dear  self  thrown  in— 
you  remember  the  Scotch  song: 

"  'I  '11  gie  ye  my  bonny  black  hen 
If  ye  '11  but  advise  me  to  marry 
The  lad  I  love  dearly,  Tarn  Glenn'— 

I  gladly  conclude  to  say  yes.  With  what  joy  I  am 
filled,  you,  I  trust,  know.  I  am  not  very  strong  as  yet, 
but  I  come  of  a  vigorous  breed,  and  no  tonic  has 
ever  helped  me  like  the  bounty  of  love.  You  have 
given  me  yourself— how  can  I  ask  more? 

"Between  us  there  lies  one  large  gulf  of  difference 
—and  only  one.  That  some  day  we  shall  bridge  it 
over,  I  hope  and  believe.  Meanwhile,  we  shall  trust 
each  other's  honesty  in  this,  life's  largest  matter, 
and,  so  trusting,  wait  with  the  patience  of  love— ' 


26  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 


"No,"  she  said,  looking  up,  "it  is  not  for  me  life's 
largest  matter.  This  human  love  is  for  me  the 
larger.  His  religion,  or  any  faith,  is,  compared  to 
that,  dim,  misty,  unsatisfying.  But  love!  ah,  that 
is  near  and  sweet  and  real." 

"Well,  well,"  she  mused,  as  she  sat  with  the  let 
ter  in  her  lap.  "He  would  have  me  to  believe  as  he 
believes.  Would  I  wish  him  to  change  ?  No.  He  is 
my  religion.  That  would  shock  him.  To  please 
him  I  could  almost  make  believe  to  think  as  he 
does.  To  be  separated  in  anything  from  him  seems 
terrible. ' ' 

She  was  facing  a  hard  question,  made  the  more 
difficult  by  pure  ignorance.  Since  childhood  she 
had  been  in  her  uncle's  care.  He  had  his  own  very 
peculiar  views,  and  the  delight  in  opposition  which 
is  fed  by  self-esteem  and  accounts  in  some  degree  for 
the  ways  and  opinions  of  men  who  in  the  conduct 
of  life  depart  radically  from  the  common-sense 
standards  of  the  world  at  large.  His  theories  found 
a  fair  field  in  Constance.  She  was  never  to  be  pun 
ished;  reasoning  would  do  everything.  How  could 
a  child  accept  a  creed?  She  must  be  kept  with  a 
neutral  mind.  She  had  never  been  allowed  to  set 
foot  in  a  church.  When  she  grew  up  she  might 
choose  for  herself.  It  shocked  the  elder  sister,  who, 
until  the  death  of  an  aunt  with  whom  she  lived, 
saw  Constance  rarely,  as  they  were  separated  by 
a  hundred  miles.  When  later  she  herself  was  left 
without  a  home,  she  gladly  accepted  her  uncle's  in 
vitation  to  live  with  them. 

The  new  abode  was  far  more  luxurious  than  the 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  27 

one  she  had  lost  upon  her  aunt's  death.  It  was  also 
very  different.  As  time  ran  on,  and  she  became 
more  familiar  with  what  she  felt  to  be  a  rather 

singular  household,  she  had  an  eager  desire  to  help  x 

her  young  sister  to  escape   from  what  seemed  to 
Susan  a  bondage  of  the  spirit.     She  became  watch-         \ 
ful  and  observant  of  her  uncle  and  Constance,  and 

saw,  with  something  like  dismay,  the  completeness     J 

of  her  sister's  isolation  from  all  knowledge  of  that 
which  seemed  to  her  an  essential  part  of  the  higher 
life.  She  was  by  temperament  and  sense  of  duty 
made  unwilling  to  accept  a  neutral  attitude ;  a  grow 
ing  affection  added  a  strong  motive,  and  she  was  res 
olute  not  to  go  on  endlessly  without  protest.  Some 
feeble  attempts  to  approach  the  subject  on  which 
the  elder  sister  felt  so  deeply  were  met  by  Con 
stance  either  with  indifference  or  mild  amusement, 
as  a  thing  long  since  disposed  of,  or  as  beneath  the 
consideration  of  thejargerjeiind.  Rather  than  by 
persistence  risk  the  loss  of  a  growing  affection, 
Susan  ceased  to  speak  of  that  which  she  held  with 
such  reverent  faith,  and  could  only  pray  that  time 
and  circumstances  would  afford  more  prosperous  op 
portunities.  With  her  uncle  she  was  still  less  for 
tunate,  but  as  he  at  least  rested  content  with  the 
situation  he  had  created,  she  felt  forced  at  last  to 
secure  for  herself  an  opportunity  to  make  the  pro 
test  to  which  she  felt  driven  by  motives  which  left 
no  escape  possible. 

He  had  soon  become  accustomed  to  use  her  for 
many  of  the  little  tasks  which  Constance  disliked. 
She  was  seated  with  her  uncle  in  his  library  after 


28  CONSTANCE  TBESCOT 

breakfast,  engaged  in  cutting  the  leaves  of  a  report 
on  the  census.  He  was  minutely  noting  in  his  diary 
the  state  of  the  barometer  and  such  reflections  of 
his  own  as  he  considered  worth  preserving,  and  as 
to  this  he  was  generous. 

He  was  not  too  busy  to  observe  that,  true  to  the 
habit  of  the  born  reader,  she  was  now  and  then 
caught  by  some  fact  of  interest,  and  ceased  using  the 
paper-cutter. 

' 'Ah,"  she  exclaimed,  laughing,  "the  census  of 
this  State  embraces  three  millions  of  women— poor 
Mr.  Census. " 

uYes,   yes,"  he   returned,   " quite   remarkable,— 
an  old  joke,  I  believe.    But  I  wish  you  would  finish. 
I  need  the  book.     Constance  has  been  trained  to  do 
one  thing  at  a  time."    The  niece  thus  characterized 
had  declined  the  task,  and  gone  out  to  sail. 
"I  shall  finish  it,  sir,  in  a  few  minutes." 
There  was  again  silence,  until  at  last  she  said: 
"The  method  of  securing  the  number  of  people  in 
the  different  religious  sects  seems  to  me  quite  ab 
surd—just  listen,  Uncle  Rufus." 

"I  have  no  interest  in  it.  It  ought  to  be  left  out. 
The  multitudinous  opinions  of  irrelevant  minds  are 
disgraceful  to  the  human  intelligence.  Negation 
is  the  proper  attitude.  Constance  represents  it  to 
my  satisfaction." 

Susan's  chance  had'come.  She  laid  the  book  down 
and  said  earnestly:  ''You  must  pardon  me  if  I 
say  that  I  think  you  are  wrong." 

"Well,  I  am  always  ready  to  hear  honest  opinions, 
—go  on." 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  29 

"Do  not  you  think  that  to  leave  a  young  girl 
without  any  sense  of  relation  to  God  must  result 
in  her  never  acquiring  any  when  grown  up?" 

"No,  I  do  not.  I  have  my  views.  When  she  is 
a  woman  and  mature,  she  will  choose." 

"But  will  she?  She  will  have  no  interest  in  the 
matter. ' ' 

' '  Well,  what  then  ?    Suppose  that  she  never  has. ' ' 

Susan  was  shocked;  but  after  a  moment  replied: 
"Well,  why  not  let  her  choose  her  morals?  Why  in 
sist  on  her  being,  as  a  child,  truthful,  and  charit 
able  ?  Why  insist  on  good  manners  ?  Let  her  choose 
her  morals  and  her  manners  when  she  is  what  you 
call  mature." 

"Nonsense;  you  are  sophistical,  and  you  are  too 
clever  not  to  know  it." 

Susan  was  well  enough  aware  of  the  difficulty  in 
defending  her  statement,  but  she  was  too  vexed  to 
be  logical,  and  said :  1 1  You  have  taken  away  from  a 
young  life  one  of  the  most  imperative  motives  to  be 
all  that  a  woman  ought  to  be." 

"I  think  I  am  a  better  judge  of  that  than  you. 
I  have  never  missed  what  you  call  religion,  nor  will 
Constance.  I  have  my  views,  and  I  insist  that  you 
are  not  to  bother  the  girl  with  your  superstitions." 

"I  am  sorry,  uncle,  but  I  can  make  no  promise." 

"I  suppose  not.  You  are  as  obstinate  in  your 
folly  as  I  am  resolute  in  my  common  sense." 

"That  is  fine,"  murmured  Susan,  as  she  returned 
to  her  work,  making  him  no  reply,  and  inclined 
for  the  time  to  abandon  a  useless  purpose.  Pres 
ently  she  laid  the  book  beside  him,  saying: 


30  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"Is  there  anything  else?" 

"No,  nothing." 

She  left  him  and  went  out  to  the  company  of 
the  flowers  and  the  wholesomeness  of  a  perfect  day, 
troubled  that  she  had  made  no  impression,  and  ask 
ing  herself  if,  after  all,  her  argument  was  sophis 
tical. 

As  she  sat  looking  at  the  white  sail  of  Constance 's 
cat-boat,  rocking  over  an  unquiet  sea,  she  began  to 
sum  up  her  slowly  acquired  knowledge  of  the 
younger  woman. 

Yes,  she  was  intelligent,— clever,  accomplished,  as 
Susan  was  not;  an  admirable  musician,  singularly 
ignorant  of  the  great  literature,  but,  like  her  uncle, 
unusually  well  informed  on  the  history  of  her  coun 
try.  How  she  had  come  to  have  political  opinions 
the  reverse  of  her  uncle's  puzzled  Susan.  It  might 
be  that  she  too  loved  to  be  in  opposition,  but  cer 
tainly  she  held  to  her  views  with  such  passion  as 
he  was  incapable  of.  And  surely  the  girl  was  beau 
tiful.  As  yet  Susan  could  go  no  further  in  her  in 
terested  analysis.  Yes,  she  had  the  virtues  of  her 
caste,  and  great  capacity  for  affection. 

The  woman  concerning  whom  it  was  thus  needful 
to  digress  went  back  to  her  letter. 

"We  will  put  this  question  aside  for  the  time. 
You  will  let  me  try  to  help  you.  Your  uncle  made 
me  understand  that  his  affairs  would  suffer  by  de 
lay,  and  now  that  I  am  clear  in  mind  I  see  no  cause 
to  prevent  us  from  being  married  whenever  you  can 
set  a  time.  No  time  will  be  too  soon  for  me.  I  have 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  31 

been  alone  in  the  world  these  many  years.  All  that 
friendship  could  give  in  the  army  and  at  home  I 
have  had,  but  neither  love  of  mother  nor  of  sister, 
nor  of  any  other  woman  has  been  mine.  You  have 
it  all—  the  all  that  might  have  been  others  is  yours, 
to-day  and  always." 

Again  she  paused,  with  the  thought  that  to  take 
him  away  even  from  his  friends  gave  her  a  sense 
of  such  completeness  of  possession  as  filled  her  with 
joy.  The  rest  of  what  he  wrote  was  as  delightful. 
She  put  the  letter  in  her  bosom  and  felt  it  move  with 
her  breathing;  now  and  again  she  took  it  out  and 
kissed  it. 


Ill 


MONTH  had  gone  by.  A  savage  north 
east  wind  was  rocking  the  pines  and 
hurling  a  thunderous  surf  on  the  rock- 
guarded  coast.  It  was  the  third  of 
March,  the  night  before  the  day  set 
for  the  marriage.  Their  uncle  having  as  usual  gone 
to  bed  early,  the  two  sisters  sat  alone  by  a  bright 
wood  fire  in  the  sitting-room  they  shared. 

Susan  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  "What  a  wild 
night!"  she  said,  as  the  rain,  wind  driven,  crashed 
against  the  panes,  and  the  casement  rattled.  "The 
gardener  said  this  afternoon  a  ship  had  gone  ashore 
on  Carlton's  Reef.  I  hope  no  lives  were  lost." 

"Yes,  Uncle  Rufus  told  me  of  it,  and  was  gra 
cious  enough  to  observe  that  going  to  sea  was  like 
getting  married— a  very  uncertain  business." 

Susan,  as  she  returned  to  the  fire,  remarked: 
"He  has  an  unequaled  capacity  for  saying  un 
pleasant  things,  but  I  really  believe  that  he  does 
not  mean  to  be  malicious.  The  trouble  is,  he  val 
ues  the  product  of  his  own  mind  too  highly  to  be 
willing  to  suppress  any  of  it.  I  might  have  had 
the  fancy  that  the  ocean  and  marriage  are  uncertain. 
I  should  not  have  thought  it  fit  or  worth  while  to 
say  so." 

"I  do  not  see,  Susan,  how  George  has  stood  it  for 
32 


CONSTANCE  TBESCOT  33 

this  last  month.  What  with  Uncle  Rufus's  endless 
indirectness  and  perpetual  indecision,  I  cannot 
wonder  that  George  is  puzzled  to  understand  what 
he  wants.  I  shall  be  more  than  glad  to  have  done 
with  it,  and  get  half  a  continent  between  us  and 
uncle." 

"You  will  never  be  done  with  it  while  he  lives," 
returned  Susan ;  '  '  and  you  may  be  pretty  sure  that 
he  will  some  day  appear  at  St.  Ann  and  still  fur 
ther  bother  George." 

"Well,  George  is  as  obstinate  as— I  ought  to  say 
more  resolute  than— Uncle  Rufus." 

"George  asked  me,"  said  Susan,  "how  uncle  had 
been  so  fortunate  in  his  affairs.  I  told  him  what 
you  of  course  know,  that  uncle 's  fortune  was  largely 
inherited,  and  that  as  the  mills  in  which  most  of 
it  was  invested  are  managed  by  wiser  men,  and  he 
is  almost  morbidly  cautious,  it  is  easy  to  see  how 
he  became  rich.  Those  lands  in  and  about  St.  Ann 
were  one  of  his  father's  ventures.  They  have  been 
the  source  of  constant  trouble.  I  suspect  that  Gen 
eral  Averill  could  not  agree  to  do  as  uncle  desired, 
and  that  when  he  gave  up  no  one  else  would  accept 
the  agency." 

No  sooner  had  she  spoken  than  she  knew  that  she 
had  been  unwise.  Constance  rose  with  a  quick  move 
ment,  and  turning  to  her  sister,  said: 

"Uncle  said  nothing  like  that  to  me  or  to  George. 
Do  you  mean  that  he  is  using  George  because  he 
could  get  no  one  else?  I  shall  go  and  ask  him  if 
he  has  dared  to  do  that."  As  she  spoke  she  moved 
quickly  to  the  door.  Susan  was  just  in  time. 


34  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"Stop,  dear,"  she  said;  "I  have  no  authority  for 
what  I  said." 

"Then  you  should  not  have  spoken.  You  make 
me  unhappy— and  now,  to-night  of  all  nights.  If 
your  suspicion  be  correct,  it  is  a  thing  I  will  not 
stand.  Let  me  go. ' ' 

"No."  Susan  set  her  back  to  the  door.  "Listen, 
dear.  Uncle  is  asleep." 

"I  do  not  care.    He  must  wake  up." 

"But  you  must  care;  and  if  I  have  been  foolish 
or  imprudent,  it  is  too  late  for  you  to  act  wildly 
on  a  mere  fancy  of  mine.  Forget  it,  dear,  and  be 
sure  that  no  matter  what  may  be  uncle's  little 
schemes,  George  Trescot  will  succeed  where  others 
have  failed." 

The  tall  girl,  still  flushed,  angry,  and  only  half 
convinced,  moved  away  and  stood  beside  the  fire, 
silent  for  a  moment.  Then,  as  Susan  took  her  hand, 
she  said: 

"You  are  right;  but,  indeed,  if  he  has  put  George 
in  a  false  position  I  shall  never  forgive  him.  I  shall 
not  tell  George." 

"I  should  not,  dear.  Sit  down.  It  is  really  of 
no  moment,  but  I  was  as  indiscreetly  anxious  in 
George's  interest  as  you  can  be.  Let  us  drop  it. 
This  is  our  last  talk.  What  a  mad  storm,  Conny!" 

"Yes.     Listen  to  the  wind." 

"But  you  love  storms,  dear." 

"Yes,  but  not  to-night.     Oh,  not  to-night! 

"I  hope  you  will  have  sunshine  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  sister,  I  do  hope  so." 

"It  does  not  look  like  it,   Conny;  but  there  is 


i '  > 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  35 

sunshine  enough  in  George  Trescot.  No  one 
could  help  liking  him;  I  am  half  in  love  with  him 
myself." 

Constance  laughed.  "I  can't  have  that^-Xwant 
hirrTall  to  myself:'*"*" 

"That  you  will  not  have,"  said  Susan,  quietly. 
"I  am  so  glad  that  you  concluded  to  be  married 
in  church." 

"He  wanted  it,  and  I  really  did  not  care." 

"But  you  will  some  day,  dear.  You  cannot  live 
with  that  man  year  after  year  and  fail  to  feel  the 
value  of  the  influences  which  guide  and  guard  his 
life— and,  dear,  it  was  not  your  fault.  I  think  it 
was  cruel,  wicked." 

Constance  looked  up.  "Do  you  think  he  is  really 
—I  mean  because  of  that— better  than  I  am?  Oh, 
I  mean— you  know  what  I  mean." 

' '  I  think  you  know,  dear, ' '  said  Susan,  ' '  or  ought 
to  know.  He  has  had  a  life  of  trial,  you  one  of  ease. 
Both  of  you  are  what  nature  and  the  chances  of  life 
have  made  you.  I  think  you  were  unfairly  dealt 
with.  Before  I  came,  and  ever  since,  uncle  has 
had  his  way." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but,  truly,  Susan,  I  am  neither 
religious  nor  non-religious;  I  am  open-minded." 

"Are  you,  my  dear  sister?  Has  not  your  open- 
mindedness  left  you  with  the  door  of  the  mind  very 
hard  to  open  wide?  Time  will  show.  You  have 
never  yet  found  yourself;  you  have  simply  the  con 
ventional  morals  and  opinions  of  our  own  social 
world.  How  they  will  serve  you  in  days  of  strain 
and  trouble  God  alone  knows." 


36  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"I  think  you  are  severe,  Susan.  I  suppose  I  shall 
laugh  or  cry,  and  grieve  or  be  merry,  like  others." 

"You  are  not  like  others.  You  are  very  unlike 
others. ' ' 

"Am  I  not?  " 

"No;  you  are  too  natural." 

"Too  natural.  Upon  my  word,  Susan,  you  are 
quite  too  enigmatical  for  my  powers  of  compre 
hension.  ' ' 

"Well,  dear,  we  won't  talk  any  more.  I  did  not 
want  to  trouble  you.  And  how  am  I  to  do  without 
you?" 

1 '  Oh,  you  must  come  to  see  us  after  a  while,  when 
we  are  settled." 

"Oh,  shall  I  not?  Now  to  bed,  to  bed,  dear,  for 
a  beauty  sleep." 

She  kissed  her,  and  Constance  went  away.  The 
elder  woman  remained  long  in  thought  by  the  fire, 
reflecting  upon  her  own  imprudent  frankness.  The 
younger  lay  awake  for  a  time,  wondering  a  little 
what  Susan  meant  by  calling  her  too  natural.  She 
awoke  early  to  hear  the  surf  and  the  constant  rain, 
and  the  wail  of  the  wind  among  the  pines. 

TRESCOT  had  never  been  his  former  vigorous  self 
since  he  was  wounded,  and  now,  a  resolute  doctor 
insisting  upon  a  long  holiday,  five  happy  weeks  went 
by,  much  to  the  betterment  of  his  health  and  looks. 
As  they  got  out  of  the  train  at  St.  Ann  early  in 
April,  on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  a  gentleman  ap 
proached  them,  and  in  the  soft  Southern  tongue 
said: 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  37 

"Mrs.  Trescot,  I  believe.  I  am  General  Averill. 
Allow  me  to  make  you  welcome  to  St.  Ann. ' ' 

As  Trescot  gave  him  his  left  hand  he  added  in  a 
cordial  way: 

"Have  you  met  with  an  accident?  Nothing  very 
bad,  I  hope."  He  seemed  really  distressed.  "And 
in  your  honeymoon,  too." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Trescot.  "I  am 
afraid  that  you  are  in  a  way  responsible;  it  was  a 
Confederate  bullet." 

"Oh,  indeed?  It  is  too  late  for  apologies,  but 
not  for  regret.  So  you  were  a  soldier.  Well,  I  am 
glad  of  that.  It  is  not  the  men  who  fought  who 
are  making  mischief  now.  My  carriage  is  here. 
This  way,  madam.  Here,  boy,"  to  an  aged  black, 
and  he  gave  some  directions  concerning  their  bag 
gage. 

"But  we  are  going  to  the  hotel,"  said  Trescot. 
"I  wrote  and  arranged  for  rooms." 

The  general  laughed.  "You  are  going  to  your 
own  house,  sir.  My  wife  has  been  busy  there,  or  she 
would  have  met  Mrs.  Trescot." 

"But  we  have  no  house,"  said  Constance. 

"A  little  surprise,  madam— as  I  understand,  a 
wedding-gift  from  Mr.  Hood.  Mrs.  Averill  wrote 
and  wished  to  be  allowed  to  put  it  in  order.  Then 
Miss  Hood  came  to  St.  Ann.  Your  uncle  and  I  are 
old  friends,  as  you  know;  and  now  that  I  see  you, 
Mrs.  Trescot,  it  is  more  than  a  pleasure— it  is  a 
privilege— to  have  been  thus  allowed  to  be  of  use. 
Ah!  here  is  the  carriage.  Permit  me." 

Trescot  could  only  express   formal  thanks,   and 


38  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

they  chatted  as  they  drove  through  the  old  Creole 
settlement,  with  its  ill-kept  gardens  and  new  wooden 
houses. 

Trescot  was  much  amazed  by  the  uncle's  sudden 
and  secret  liberality.  They  had  lieen  five  weeks 
away  from  home,  and  except  that  Susan  had  writ 
ten,  soon  after  they  left,  that  St.  Ann  would  sur 
prise  them,  they  had  been  unprepared  for  what 
now  they  heard. 

Unable,  for  the  time,  to  discuss  matters,  they 
drove  on  for  a  half-mile  through  the  dust  of  the 
main  street;  and  when  a  little  way  out  of  the  fast- 
growing  southwestern  town  the  general  said,  "This 
is  what  we  call  Raeburn's  addition."  Where  the 
road  began  to  slope  to  the  broad  river  a  too  san 
guine  speculator  had  put  up  a  half-dozen  scattered 
cottages. 

"This  is  your  home,  Mrs.  Trescot.  No,  I  shall 
leave  you  to  enjoy  it  alone.  Mrs.  Averill  has  gone 
away,  and  hopes  you  will  be  pleased.  You  will 
find  supper  ready  in  an  hour." 

They  stood  a  moment  on  the  roadside.  A  neat 
old  black  woman  in  a  gay  bandana  head-kerchief 
stood  at  the  open  door;  the  general,  hat  in  hand, 
kind,  genial,  courteous,  a  little  profuse  in  talk.  The 
two  young  people  thanked  him,  and  they  were  left 
alone. 

Constance  had  misgivings  as  to  what  she  might 
expect  in  this  new  home.  She  said  nothing  of  the 
feeling  she  had  that  she  should  have  been  consulted 
as  to  the  furniture.  But  much  of  what  was  needed 
had  been  chosen  by  Susan,  and  some  simple  but 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  39 

refined  taste  had  presided  over  the  rest.  As  she 
looked  about  her,  she  cried:  "Oh,  George,  when  I 
heard  I  was  afraid;  but  it  is  really  so  very  pretty 
and  so  simple;  and  was  it  not  considerate  to  leave 
us  alone?  And  was  n't  it  like  Susan  just  to  go 
away  and  leave  us  to  ourselves,  and  Mrs.  Averill 
too?" 

"You  do  not  yet  know  the  best  of  these  Southern 
people,  Constance.  It  will  be  both  pleasant  and 
desirable  that  you  and  I  learn  to  like  them.  I  am 
sure  you  will.  Imagine  the  kindness  of  it,  and  the 
trouble !" 

They  went  from  room  to  room  in  the  little  house, 
looking  out  on  the  roses  already  in  bloom,  the  grass 
slopes,  and  the  river  beyond.  At  last  they  found 
their  way  into  the  dining-room,  and  then  into  an 
apartment  where  were  shelves  and  a  businesslike 
table;  but  here  the  cases  sent  on  by  Trescot  and 
Constance  had  been  left  unopened.  Again  husband 
and  wife  recognized  the  feeling  which  had  left  their 
personal  belongings  untouched. 

One  of  the  servants,  an  old  woman  once  a  slave  of 
the  Averills,  conducted  Constance  over  the  kitchen, 
and  up-stairs  and  down  again,  and  was  delighted 
when,  after  supper,  the  cooking  was  praised. 

Then,  as  the  shadows  came,  and  they  sat  on  the 
back  porch  among  clustering  Cherokee  roses,  she 
brought  him  a  match,  and  as  his  pipe  glowed  or 
darkened  they  talked  of  the  new  life  before  them; 
she  recognizing  with  fresh  happiness  the  man's 
gain  in  health  and  vigor ;  he,  at  moments,  in  thought 
with  certain  reasonable  fears.  Would  this  distin- 


40  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

guished-looking  woman,  with  her  music,  her  social 
ties,  her  unchecked  expenditures,  her  familiar  Bos 
ton  circle— would  she  be  contented  here  in  this 
simpler  life?  Would  every  one  be  as  kind  as  Mrs. 
Averill?  He  became  more  and  more  silent  as  they 
sat  in  the  twilight.  She,  too,  had  her  less  distinct 
doubts,  but  heretofore  they  had  said  little  of  the 
life  which  lay  before  them.  Now  she  spoke,  touch 
ing  his  brown  hair  as  he  sat  on  the  step  below  her. 
She  was  strangely  intuitive  as  concerned  George 
Trescot. 

"I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of,  my  dear,  dear 
George. ' ' 

"Oh!    What,  love?" 

"You  are  wondering  whether  I  shall  be  satisfied 
here  in  this  new  life  amid  the  people  you  fought  and 
I  hated." 

"I  was;  but  you  will  not  hate  them.  I  never 
did." 

"And  I  shall  not  if  they  are  good  to  you." 

' c  Oh,  whether  or  not ;  and  you  won 't  miss  the  ease 
of  home,  the  varied  life,  your  carriage  and  riding- 
horse?" 

"I— I  have  you." 

"But  you  will  not  have  me  always  as  you  have 
had  for  these  happy  weeks. ' ' 

"But  you  will  be  always  thinking  of  me." 

"Even  that  may  not  be  possible.  I  sometimes 
fancy  it  would  have  been  better— ' ' 

"No,  no;  we  did  wisely,  and  love  is  my  only 
answer. ' ' 

"Then,  once  and  for  all  let  us  put  away  the 
past,  and  accept  our  new  life  with  thankfulness." 


CONSTANCE  TBESCOT  41 

"Yes.  Ah,  letters!  Thank  you,"  she  said  to  the 
maid.  "Let  us  go  in,  George,  and  read  them."  As 
they  sat  down,  she  cried:  "Gracious!  oh,  do  listen 
to  this,  George.  It  is  from  uncle/ 


)  •> 


"My  DEAR  CONSTANCE: 

"Major- General  Averill  will  give  you  the  title- 
deeds  of  the  house.  It  will,  I  hope,  make  you  less 
discontented,  for  you  will  have  to  economize  as  you 
never  did  here.  I  trust  also  that  my  generosity  will 
be  an  inducement  to  that  obstinate  young  man  to 
give  the  fullest  attention  to  my  affairs. 

1 '  Susan  will,  no  doubt,  tell  you  that  she  made  me 
give  you  the  house;  but  her  religion  is  too  vague 
a  thing  to  have  taught  her  accuracy.  What  she  calls 
faith,  I  am  happy  to  say  I  am  without;  it  is  too 
vague  for  intellectual  assimilation. 

"Yours  affectionately, 

"RUFUSHOOD." 

"Of  which  has  he  none— faith  or  intellectual 
assimilation?"  laughed  Trescot.  "Upon  my  word, 
Constance,  what  about  the  blind  belief  we  call  love? 
No  one  knows  everything  of  any  one.  The  rest  we 
call  trust,  faith;  and  without  the  mystery  of  the 
unknowable  in  man,  woman,  and  God,  the  half  of 
the  charm  of  life  and  love  were  gone." 

She  did  not  answer  him  directly,  but  said :  ' '  Uncle 
Rufus  is  plain  enough,  and  I  know  you,  and  you 
me." 

"No,  not  altogether;  what  you  would  do  or  be  in 
certain  contingencies  of  this  changeful  life,  I  do  not 
know. ' ' 


42  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"Am  I  not  simple?" 

"You?     No,  no,"  he  laughed.  "But  what  does 
Susan  say?" 
She  read: 

"DEAR  CONNY: 

"As  soon  as  you  were  engaged  I  set  to  work  to 
make  Uncle  Rufus  behave  decently.  He  is  not  mean 
or  ungenerous,  but  you  were  to  be  punished  for 
preferring  George  to  him,  and  to  have  a  narrow 
income  as  a  reminder  of  your  iniquity.  We  had 
it  about  and  about.  He  enjoyed  the  row  and,  as 
usual,  backed  down.  I  made  him  groan  when  the 
bills  came  in;  but  he  had  to  pay,  and  now  he  tells 
every  one  about  the  pleasure  he  had  in  surprising 
you  with  the  house.  I  send  a  few  books  of  refer 
ence  for  George — the  cyclopedia  he  wanted,  and  a 
few  other  books." 

She  said  nothing  of  what  further  she  had  done. 

Constance  looked  up.  "But  I  meant  to  give  you 
that  cyclopedia  myself.  I  told  her  so." 

She  had  a  childlike  disappointment  because  of 
having  been  thus  anticipated.  He  saw  and  under 
stood. 

"But  I  want  far  more— the  new  biographical  dic 
tionary,  and  how  many  other  books  I  dare  not  tell 
you.  To-morrow  we  shall  see  when  we  unpack  the 
boxes.  What  else  is  there  in  your  sister's  letter?" 

"Nothing  of  moment.  She  wishes  to  know  if  the 
house,  our  house— is  n't  that  delightful— needs  any 
other  furniture." 


CONSTANCE  TBESCOT  43 

"I  should  think  not,"  said  Trescot,  faintly  jeal 
ous  of  the  liberality  which  had  provided  what  in 
time  he  had  hoped  to  give.  He  said,  however:  "I 
confess,  dear,  to  being  very  glad  that  you  are  to  be 
so  pleasantly  nested.  I  feared  a  little  the  long  stay 
at  an  inn  or  in  lodgings,  where  you  would  have  all 
manner  of  unavoidable  contacts." 

1  'Yes,"  she  said,  "that  would  have  been  dreadful. 
To  have  been  able  all  one's  life  to  choose  or  avoid, 
to  say  'At  home'  or  not,  and  then  to  be  obliged 
to  meet,  all  the  time,  the  chance  acquaintances  of 
a  boarding-house !  I  did  not  expect  to  have  a  house 
for  a  year  at  least." 

George  Trescot  reflected  anew  upon  the  sacrifices 
she  had  made,  and  on  how  less  than  little  she  knew 
of  what  she  was  saved  by  Susan's  persistency  and 
self-sacrifice. 

"We  owe  Susan  a  great  debt,"  he  said;  "and  I 
am  as  grateful  as  a  man  ought  to  be;  but  I  wish 
I  had  been  able  to  do  all  this  for  you  myself.  I  have 
been  so  anxious  that  you  should  be  satisfied." 

Constance  slipped  down  on  to  the  step  beside  him, 
cast  an  arm  around  him,  and  laid  her  head  on  his 
shoulder.  "You  need  not  have  been  afraid,  George. 
Life  can  ask  nothing  of  me,  large  or  small,  which 
I  would  not  give  or  be  or  do  for  you."  The  voice 
became  low  and  measured  as  she  went  on.  "I  could 
beg,  or  do  anything.  You  will  see  how  I  shall  help 
you.  I  shall  make  all  these  St.  Ann  people  our 
friends— oh,  whether  I  like  them  or  not;  but, 
George,  I  am  scared  sometimes  when  I  think  of  how 
all  other  love  has  shrunk  to  nothing,  as  if  it  had  all 


44  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

gone  to  make  up  one  great  love  for  you.  If  any 
one-man  or  woman— loves  you,  I  shall  be  jealous; 
if  any  .one  does  not,  I  shall  hate  him.  Oh,  I  am  a 
fine  fool  of  love !  I  am  half  jealous  of  the  company 
you  find  in  your  pipe." 

He  said,  ''Are  you,  indeed?" 

"Yes,  I  am,  really.  Oh,  you  may  laugh,  but  I 
am." 

The  stress  of  passion  in  her  words  was  broken  by 
this  half-humorous  reflection,  and  a  little  to  the 
man's  relief,  even  if  he  hardly  knew  it.  The  quality 
of  his  affection  was  governed  by  temperament,  and, 
never  reaching  the  instinctive  freedom  of  her  pas 
sion,  was  nobler,  in  that  it  looked  forward  to  being 
always  the  true  lover,  and  also  the  friend  who 
guides  and  counsels;  for  already  he  saw  that  both 
guidance  and  counsel  might  be  needed.  He  smiled 
as  he  kissed  her. 

''Well,  shall  I  give  up  my  friend  of  many  camp- 
fires,  of  sad  days,  of  long  night-rides  ? ' ' 

"What  a  pretty  defense!  No,  indeed;  I  like  it 
because  it  can  comfort  and  cannot  love." 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  standing  before  him, 
threw  up  her  hands  with  a  gesture  of  emphatic 
abandonment  and  cried:  "Oh,  George,  I  am  so 
happy!  Come,  let  us  walk  in  the  garden.  Is  n't 
it  little?— but  do  look  at  the  roses." 

He  went  with  her,  and  they  talked  more  quietly 
of  the  kindness  of  the  general  and  his  wife;  of 
their  own  plans,  and  of  his  work.  To  his  surprise, 
she  said  no  word  of  Susan.  At  last  he  said,  "It  is 
early,  but  you  must  be  tired." 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  45 

"Oh,  I  am  never  tired;  but  I  have  to  unpack,  and 
what  the  colored  women  can  do  I  have  yet  to  learn. ' ' 

"To-morrow  will  be  Sunday,  Constance." 

"I  am  going  to  church  with  you.  You  will  have 
to  find  the  places  for  me  in  your  prayer-book;  but 
I  am  going  because— because  you  are  going." 

* '  Thank  you !  You  are  very  good  to  me,  my  love  ! 
Good  night." 

She  left  him,  and  he  lighted  his  pipe,  and  for  an 
hour  moved  about  in  thought. 


IV 


S  they  went  up  the  slight  ascent  of 
West  Street  toward  the  Episcopal 
church,  Constance  said  to  her  husband : 
"Since  we  left  home  you  have  gone  to 
church  alone.  I  mean  that  you  shall 
never  do  that  again.  But,  George,  do  you  know  that 
this  will  be  the  first  time  I  have  ever  been  present 
at  a  church  service  ?" 

"It  will  interest  you,"  he  said,  realizing  with 
regret  how  complete  had  been  the  denial  of  the 
highest  opportunities  to  the  woman  he  loved.  Care 
ful  to  show  no  surprise,  he  went  on  to  speak  of  the 
service,  and  of  how  it  had  been  formed  and  molded, 
until,  arriving  at  the  church,  they  sat  down  near 
to  the  door.  After  church  they  slipped  away,  un 
noticed,  except  casually  by  General  Averill.  On  the 
way  homeward,  Constance  was  silent  for  a  time,  and 
seeming  to  her  husband  thus  inclined,  he  made  no 
effort  to  disturb  her  mood. 

Presently,  however,  she  began  to  speak  of  the 
impression  this  amazing  novelty  of  a  great  ritual 
had  left  with  her.  The  congregation  had  been  large 
and  very  devoted.  She  confessed  to  interest  and 
something  like  awe— a  certain  wonder  at  it,  a  trained 
disbelief  in  its  verities.  She  spoke  with  care,  and  he, 
on  his  side,  listened  without  criticism.  Certainly 

46 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  47 

to  her  it  was  so  strange  that  he  found  it  hard  to  put 
himself  in  her  attitude  of  mind,  and  preferred,  with 
the  patience  which  was  part  of  his  character,  to  do 
no  more  than  wait  for  such  better  chances  as  time 
might  bring. 

The  music  she  found  good  and  simple.  Caught 
by  its  charm,  her  full  soprano  rose  in  the  hymns  he 
knew  so  well,  and  added  to  the  satisfaction  he  felt 
when  she  expressed  her  surprise  at  the  refined  faces 
she  saw  about  her.  He  explained  that  the  older 
settlers  had  been  Virginians,  and  many  of  them 
gentlefolk.  She  was  sure  she  would  like  them;  and 
the  elderly  woman  she  saw  as  they  came  out  must 
be  Mrs.  Aver  ill.  She  smiled  at  them  as  the  general 
raised  his  hat— a  handsome  couple.  There  was  even 
a  kind  of  distinction  in  the  old-fashioned  gowns  and 
bonnets. 

"I  think  they  were  all  curious  about  us,"  she 
added. 

"There  may  be  other  reasons/'  he  laughed,  "for 
looking  at  you,  my  dear.  I  sometimes  enjoy  that 
privilege  myself." 

Sunday  passed  quietly  in  their  new  home,  and 
they  fully  recognized  the  thoughtful  kindness  which 
left  them  thus  undisturbed.  In  the  afternoon  they 
decided  to  see  the  little  city  and  their  neighborhood. 
They  were  about  a  half-mile  from  the  court-house 
green,  beyond  which,  on  an  upper  rise,  were  a  dozen 
houses,  not  very  well  cared  for,  but  set  pleasantly 
among  trees  and  well-tended  gardens.  On  the  level 
land  above  the  river  bluff  were  the  straggling  houses 
and  shops  which,  in  their  fresh  shingles  and  paint, 


48  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

gave  evidence  here  and  there  of  the  new  material 
growth  which  had  begun  since  the  war.  Below  the 
bluff,  on  the  shore  of  the  great  curve  of  the  turbid 
river,  were  warehouses,  cotton-presses,  and  rudely 
built  piers  where  steamers  lay.  Much  of  the  nearer 
water-front  was  occupied,  and  as  they  stood  Tres- 
cot  pointed  out  where,  at  the  bend  of  the  river, 
lay  the  long  stretch  of  frontage  which  was  in 
litigation,  and  was  claimed  by  Mr.  Hood.  De 
scending  to  the  water's  edge,  they  found  a  rough 
road  which  passed  through  low  growths  and  the 
rude  clearings  of  the  squatters  who  had  refused  to 
vacate  their  lands.  Beyond,  the  road  wound  along 
the  river  bank,  and  over  the  land  which  Trescot 
had  pointed  out  as  valuable  on  account  of  the  deep 
water  in  front  of  it. 

When  on  their  homeward  way  they  came  near  to 
their  own  house,  the  path  so  narrowed  in  front  of 
an  ill-kept  garden  that  Trescot  fell  behind.  A  gen 
tleman  in  gray  clothes,  and  wearing  an  undress 
army-cap  with  Confederate  buttons,  moved  aside 
into  the  road  to  make  room  for  Mrs.  Trescot  to  pass. 
He  lifted  his  cap  and  showed  some  attentive  sur 
prise  as  Trescot  touched  his  straw  hat  and  they 
passed  on. 

"By  George!"  he  murmured,  "who  can  that  be? 
What  a  beautiful  woman!"  He  stared  after  her 
well-clad  figure,  noting  the  ease  and  grace  of  her 
walk,  and  then  the  slighter  form  of  the  man.  See 
ing  them  turn  in  at  their  own  gate,  he  said  aloud: 
"That  must  be  old  Hood's  new  agent.  He  is  very 
young." 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  49 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Trescot  said:  "George,  did  you 
notice  that  gentleman?'* 

"Yes." 

"He  looks  like  an  Indian  chief,  and  very  unlike 
the  people  I  saw  to-day.  He  is  handsome,  but  how 
dark  he  is!" 

"Oh,  there  is  some  old  Creole  blood  here— of 
French  descent,  very  likely— a  fine,  big  man,  prob 
ably  a  Confederate  soldier." 

THE  Monday  morning  of  their  first  week  at  St. 
Ann  found  them  after  breakfast  on  the  back  porch 
of  their  new  home.  The  man  was  gravely  happy; 
the  young  wife  a  little  excited  as  they  began  to  con 
sider  what  they  were  to  do  on  this  the  first  morn 
ing  of  their  new  life.  Past  the  little  garden,  the 
grassy  slopes  and  green  maize-fields  were  bounded 
below  by  a  fringe  of  oaks,  beyond  which  the  brown 
current  of  the  mighty  river  swept  onward  in  its 
march  to  the  gulf.  The  Cherokee  rose  was  all  about 
them  in  red  clusters,  the  humming-birds  were  busy 
on  quivering  wing,  and  the  warmth  and  moisture 
of  the  Southland— April  already— invited  to  repose 
and  idleness. 

"It  is  very  pleasant  here,"  said  Trescot,  "but 
there  will  be  many  things  to  do,  and  I  suppose  one 
must  begin."  As  he  spoke  he  rose.  The  tempta 
tions  to  linger  were  very  great.  But  at  last  he  com 
promised  with  sense  of  duty  by  resolving,  as  many 
a  man  has  done,  to  go  as  soon  as  his  pipe  had  gone 
out.  Nevertheless  he  economically  nursed  the  fail 
ing  pipe.  As  he  lingered  Constance  asked : 


50  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

' '  What  have  you  to  do,  George  ?    I  mean  at  once. ' ' 

"Oh,  many  things.  I  must  see  the  general  and 
learn  all  I  can  of  your  uncle's  affairs.  There  are  un 
paid  rents,  mortgages  in  arrears,  taxes,  and  what 
not,— a  sad  tangle,  I  fear.  Then,  if  I  am  to  appear 
in  the  courts  I  must  qualify  by  an  examination  to 
practise  in  this  State." 

She  was  at  once  eager  to  know  why. 

"I  could  appear,"  he  returned,  "in  a  United 
States  court,  but  not  before  local  tribunals.  But 
that  is  all  simple."  And,  in  fact,  after  a  fort 
night  he  was  enabled  thus  to  qualify  for  practice  at 
St.  Ann. 

When  at  last  the  pipe  refused  to  furnish  excuses 
for  delay,  he  left  his  wife  to  her  new  household 
duties.  She  found  herself  amply  occupied,  and 
while  her  husband  spent  a  busy  morning  with  Aver- 
ill,  she  went  about  the  house  with  the  two  black  ser 
vants,  arranging  her  husband's  books,  and  giving 
to  the  rooms  that  look  of  having  been  lived  in,  which 
is  one  of  the  mysterious  accomplishments  of  certain 
women.  Trescot  heard  snatches  of  song  as  he  came 
in  at  midday,  to  meet  her  eager  questions,  and  to 
note  with  satisfaction  what  she  had  done  to  change 
the  house  into  a  home. 

' '  How  hard  you  must  have  worked ! "  he  said,  see 
ing  all  of  his  many  books  in  order. 

"I  did  not  unpack  your  law  books,  George." 

"No,  you  were  right;  I  must  have  them  with  me. 
I  am  to  have  a  bit  of  an  office  next  to  the  general's. 
I  find  that  he  has  come  into  some  property  of  late, 
and  wants  to  give  up  part  of  his  work— I  mean 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  51 

chiefly  your  uncle's  affairs.  There  are,  I  fancy, 
other  reasons.  He  was  somewhat  reticent.  From 
what  I  gathered  I  fear  that  your  uncle's  business  is 
going  to  be  difficult ;  and  he  has  been  so  hard  to  deal 
with  that  people  here  say  it  is  impossible  to  settle 
anything.  However,  we  shall  see.  I  suspect  that 
the  general  has  been  indisposed  to  push  matters,  and 
that  your  uncle  has  been  unyieldingly  opposed  to 
any  compromises." 

"Very  likely,"  said  Constance;  "but  if  the  gen 
eral  had  been  firm  uncle  would  have  given  way.  He 
always  does.  But  for  that  he  should  be  here.  He 
is  always  most  obstinate  in  his  letters." 

"That  is  hardly  consoling,"  said  Trescot.  "And 
oh,  Constance,  I  would  not  hang  my  sword  here. 
Put  it  in  your  room." 

"I  should  like  that,"  she  said,  at  once  under 
standing  him.  "I  see  that  you  do  not  wear  your 
Loyal  Legion  button— I  suppose  we  are  to  forget?" 

"Yes,  and  forgive,  as  they,  too,  will  in  time.  I 
lost  a  brother  and  many  friends  in  the  war,  but, 
dear,  I  learn  that  our  old  general  lost  his  two  sons,— 
his  only  children,  Constance,— his  all.  They  are 
childless." 

"Oh,  George!  That  mother!  She  was  here  to 
day,  and  such  kindness  I  never  could  have  hoped 
for.  Now  I  understand  her 

"  'sad  eyes 
Wherein  no  expectation  lies/ 

Who  said  that,  George?  I  forget.  I  wondered 
what  gave  her  that  look;  I  noticed  it  when  I  first 


52  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

saw  her.  I  think  Susan  quoted  it  once.  And,  my 
dear  George,  she  heard  me  singing  in  that  absurd 
way  in  church,  and  would  I  join  the  choir,  and  they 
would  expect  us  to  use  their  pew,  and  there  are 
sewing-circles,  and  what  not.  I  had  to  say  several 
noes;  I  did  it  sweetly,  and  said  I  must  think  about 
it.  Imagine  me  in  a  sewing-circle ! ' ' 

"I  am  sure  you  said  just  the  right  thing.  As  for 
the  general,  he,  too,  was  more  than  kind.  He  begged 
me  to  be  careful  about  war  talk.  People  were  still 
sensitive.  And  I  ought  to  be  made  aware  that  your 
uncle,  whom  no  one  here  has  seen,  is  detested,  and 
supposed  to  hinder  the  growth  of  the  town  by  re 
fusals  to  sell  or  improve.  He  wants  me  to  see  people 
socially,  and  it  seems  there  is  a  little  club  which  he 
thinks  I  had  better  join.  I  said  it  would  be  as  well 
to  wait.  I  do  not  want  any  needless  expenses— even 
the  smallest. " 

"Oh,  I  shall  manage,  George.  I  have  talked  to 
Mrs.  Averill.  We  shall  have  enough.  It  might  be 
better  to  join  the  club." 

"I  shall  think  of  it,"  he  said.  "But  my  best 
club  is  elsewhere." 

"Yes;  but  you  would  see  these  people  there. 
Only,  I  shall  be  jealous  of  the  hours  I  dp  not 
own. ' ' 

"You  own  all  my  hours,  Constance.  And,  by  the 
way,  talking  of  jealousy,  the  dark  gentleman  you 
admired  yesterday  has  some  Indian  and  some  Creole 
blood.  I  guessed  well.  But  his  name,  I  take  it,  is 
English— Greyhurst.  He  is  the  lawyer  who  has  been 
engaged  in  the  suit  to  dispossess  your  uncle  of  the 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  53 

water-front.  I  hear,  also,  that  he  is  pretty  deeply 
and  personally  interested  in  lands  along  the  water." 

She  determined  to  know  more  of  this  man  when 
she  saw  the  general.  She  had  some  vague  feeling 
that  here  was  a  man  who  would  be  hostile ;  and  she 
had  not  liked  the  smiling  face  with  the  dark,  at 
tentive  eyes. 

The  next  day  being  Tuesday,  while  Trescot  was 
again  busy  with  the  old  general,  Constance  dressed 
with  care  and  set  out  to  visit  his  wife.  The  sun  was 
warm,  and  as  she  walked  along  the  road  to  the  town 
she  was  full  of  plans  for  a  social  campaign  which 
should  be  of  use  to  the  man  she  loved.  There  was 
enough  to  interest  in  the  negro  huts  and  children, 
the  wayside  flowers,  the  straggling  town,  its  bloom 
ing  gardens,  and  the  houses  which  war  and  its  at 
tendant  poverty  had  left  long  uncared  for.  As  she 
gained  the  main  street,  she  began  to  see  that  she  was 
the  object  of  notice;  but  to  this  she  was  not  unac 
customed,  and  did  not  find  it  unpleasing.  Her  looks 
and  her  power  to  be  agreeable  were  a  part  of 
George's  capital.  She  noted  the  men  on  horseback 
—now  and  then  a  man  in  a  battle-worn  suit  of  Con 
federate  gray;  twice  she  observed  the  "C.  S." 
branded  on  the  flanks  of  mules— and  felt  the  near 
ness  of  that  vast  struggle  which  had  left  the  South 
wrecked  and  impoverished. 

A  question  or  two  brought  her  to  the  general's 
house.  It  stood  on  a  rise  to  the  eastward  and  above 
the  town— an  ample  brick  dwelling  of  more  preten 
sion  than  those  near  by.  The  garden  around  it  on 
all  sides  was  admirably  cared  for,  but  the  fence 


54  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

was  broken  and  the  gate  lay  on  the  ground.  The 
hall  door  was  open,  but  she  looked  in  vain  for  a 
bell,  and  used  the  brass  knocker  without  effect.  At 
last  she  entered,  and  saw  through  the  back  door  of 
the  hall  the  gray  head  of  Mrs.  Averill  in  the  garden, 
moving  between  tall  rows  of  Osage  orange.  For  a 
moment  some  inbred  regard  for  conventional  usages 
stayed  the  visitor's  steps,  and  then,  seeing  no  other 
way,  she  walked  through  the  house  and  down  the 
garden  path. 

Mrs.  Averill  turned,  setting  down  a  basket  of 
roses,  and  with  both  hands  welcomed  her  visitor. 

"Come  in,"  she  said;  "come  in  out  of  the  sun." 

Her  looks  approved  the  proudly  carried  head,  the 
rich  red  of  the  cheeks,  the  large  blue  eyes,  and  that 
indescribable  air  of  caste  and  good-breeding  which 
the  day  before,  as  they  came  out  of  church,  had  been 
at  once  and  easily  recognized. 

Constance,  too,  saw  that  here  was  an  older  woman 
of  her  own  world— a  woman,  as  she  wrote  to  Susan, 
who  seemed  suited  to  the  old-fashioned  garden  and 
its  familiar  flowers— a  delicately  provincial  dame, 
with  an  assured  way  of  saying  gently  very  positive 
things,  and  with  hands  and  feet  thin,  delicate,  and 
marvelously  small. 

The  Southland  tongue  as  Mrs.  Averill  used  it, 
with  its  half -lost  r's  and  a  certain  precision  in  her 
choice  of  words,  delighted  the  critical  taste  of  Con 
stance. 

As  they  entered  the  large  parlor,  Mrs.  Averill 
said :  "Sit  down,  my  dear ;  it  is  very  warm.  I  must 
find  my  servants— nowadays  they  are  never  to  be 
found.  You  shall  have  a  glass  of  lemonade." 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  55 

Constance  said  she  should  be  glad  to  have  it,  and 
was  left  alone.  She  looked  after  her  hostess  with 
increasing  satisfaction.  Mrs.  Averill  was  exquisitely 
neat,  from  the  little  cap,  over  abundant  gray  hair, 
and  wide  white  kerchief  to  the  white  gown  and  the 
long  garden  gloves.  The  room  offered  an  unpleas- 
ing  contrast.  The  wall-paper  was  worn  and  spotted, 
the  seats  of  the  chairs  showed  signs  of  wear.  Some 
of  them  were  ofj^olonial  respectability,  some  with 
the  black  hair-cloth  covers  of  a  day  of  worse  taste. 
The  matting  was  much  mended,  and  a  thin-legged 
piano,  not  too  free  from  dust,  suggested  indifference, 
or,  more  probably,  the  housekeeping  troubles  of 
which  as  yet  Constance  was  happily  ignorant. 

On  the  walls  were  two  or  three  portraits  in  the 
thin  manner  of  the  elder  Peale,  and  an  admirable 
Copley  of  a  husband  and  wife.  Over  the  fireplace 
hung  a  pair  of  crossed  swords  suspended  by  broad 
black  ribbons.  Below  were  ill-colored  photographs 
of  two  young  officers  in  Confederate  uniform. 
"Poor  mother!"  said  Constance.  Over  all,  caught 
up  in  folds,  hung  a  torn  battle-flag  of  the  rebel 
States,  and  below  it  the  flag  of  a  Maine  regiment, 
also  tattered  and  battle-scarred,  evidently  a  cap 
tured  trophy. 

For  a  moment  the  young  faces  of  the  dead  sons 
troubled  her,  and  then  the  two  flags  sent  a  rush  of 
angry  blood  to  her  face— a  return  of  the  passionate 
feelings  the  great  war  had  so  often  caused  her. 
Here  before  her  was  the  record  of  battle  and  of 
death,  of  the  pathos  and  the  courage  and  endurance 
of  a  struggle  which  should  have  left,  and  did  leave 
for  the  best  of  those  who  fought  and  won,  only  ad- 


r 


56  CONSTANCE  TBESCOT 

miration,  pity,  and  magnanimity.  Constance  had 
little  of  that  greatness  of  soul  which  is  the  noblest 
factor  in  the  large  gospel  of  forgiveness.  The  per 
sonal  feeling  which  entered  so  largely  into  her  life 
during  the  war  was  supported  by  an  unusually  in 
telligent  knowledge  of  our  history,  and  kept  angrily 
alive  by  her  uncle's  attitude  when,  rejoicing  over 
Confederate  victories,  he  thus  kept  her  irritated  and 
on  edge  throughout  the  years  of  that  sad  struggle— 
ever  glorious  for  those  who  won  and  those  who  lost. 

Hearing  Mrs.  Averill's  step  at  the  doorway,  she 
turned  quickly  from  the  mantel  to  meet  her,  com 
posing  her  face  with  the  habitual  ease  of  a  caste  ac 
customed  to  hide  emotion.  The  little  old  lady,  so 
gray,  so  worn,  became  of  a  sudden  grave. 

"Sit  down  here  beside  me,"  she  said.  "You  were 
looking  at  the  flags  and— the  faces  of  my  dead. 
Of  course  it  troubled  you— I  saw  that— the  flags 
and— the  rest.  I  won't  have  you  excuse  yourself; 
it  was  natural.  One  boy  fell  dead  on  the  flag  he 
had  captured ;  they  sent  it  home  to  me.  The  other, 
a  prisoner,  died  in  the  North,  after  having  been 
cared  for  as  we  could  not  have  cared  for  him  in 
those  terrible  days.  You  see,  I  am  explaining  to 
you  because  we  are  to  be  friends;  but  some  day, 
when  you  are  a  mother,  you—" 

"Please  don't,"  said  Constance,  taking  her  thin 
hand.  Both  women's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

For  a  moment  they  were  silent.  Then  Constance 
said,  "How  did  you  live  through  it?" 

"God  helped  me,  as  some  day  he  may  need  to  help 
you.  It  is  less  hard  to  forgive  a  nation  than  if  it 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  57 


had  been  a  man,  and  John  Averill  was  spared  to 
sorrow  with  me.  Some  day  I  shall  see  my  boys. 
There,  my  dear,  we  must  not  talk  of  it  any 
but  we  are  very  sore  in  the  South,  and  the  state  of 
things  in  the  Carolinas  makes  it  impossible  to  for 
get  defeat  in  the  face  of  continual  humiliation." 

"I  know,"  said  Constance.  "It  is  shameful,  and 
no  one— not  even  you— can  feel  it  more  than  my 
husband.  He  tries  to  put  aside  the  war.  He  never 
speaks  of  it,  although  his  crippled  arm  is  a  sad 
reminder.  He  will  not  let  me  h,ang  his  sword  where 
it  can  be  seen  in—  She  paused,  feeling  that  she 
had  made  one  of  those  social  slips  which  even  the 
best-trained  do  not  altogether  escape.  She  went  on 
quickly:  "We  want  to  make  friends  with  the  peo 
ple  here.  You  will  tell  us  how.  You  know  it  is  to 
be  our  home." 

"My  dear,  you  will  easily  make  friends;  but 
sometimes  you  will  have  to  be  forbearing  and  keep 
silent.  It  may  be  hard,  but  for  those  who  won  it 
should  not  be."  Constance  thought  of  George,  and 
assented.  "Mr.  Trescot  will  find  it  less  easy;  but 
his  having  been  in  your  army  will  help  him  with 
all  but  the  women ;  we  are  unreasonably  venomous— 
a  few  of  us,  not  all." 

"Well,  that  will  save  me  some  jealousies,"  said 
Constance,  smiling. 

"Ah,  here  is  the  lemonade,"  said  her  hostess. 
"I  was  picking  these  flowers  for  you;  will  you  care 
to  carry  the  basket,  or  shall  I  send  them?  I  was 
about  to  call  again  this  afternoon.  I  thought  I 
might  help  you.  It  must  all  be  so  strange  to  you." 


58  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

Constance,  thanking  her,  rose,  saying:  "You  will 
let  me  come  again  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  often,  I  hope,— often." 

She  walked  away  through  the  sun  and  down  the 
dusty  street,  carrying  the  roses.  The  men  looked 
after  her  erect  figure,  the  women  made  comments 
on  gown  and  bonnet. 

She  was  lost  to  her  surroundings,  thinking  of  the 
flags  and  the  dead  boys,  and  wondering  at  the  peace 
of  soul  which  had  come  to  the  childless  mother. 
She  could  not  comprehend  it,  and  thought  that  such 
a  calamity  falling  on  herself  would  have  left  her 
with  an  undying  hatred.  Presently,  feeling  the 
heat,  she  was  reminded  that  she  had  promised  not 
to  tempt  its  consequences  through  the  summer 
months.  The  idea  of  leaving  George  troubled  her, 
and  she  quickened  her  pace  in  order  the  sooner  to 
see  him. 


|HE  Trescots  by  degrees  settled  into  a 
routine  of  life  which,  while  it  left  Con 
stance  alone  in  the  mornings,  usually 
permitted  of  their  being  together  the 
rest  of  the  day,  and  in  the  evening. 
A  few  friends  or  relatives  of  the  Averills  called 
upon  them;  but  these  visits  were  evidently  formal 
or  made  to  oblige  the  general's  wife,  and  they  were 
left  much  alone. 

If  Trescot  soon  felt  the  social  atmosphere  to  be 
cold,  he  excused  it,  and  trusted  to  time  and  chance 
for  better  things.  Except  that  Constance  saw  in 
their  reception  difficulties  for  her  husband,  she  had 
small  regret  on  account  of  the  conditions  which  re 
lieved  her  from  being  constantly  on  guard,  and 
made  her  secure  of  a  larger  share  of  the  society  she 
preferred  to  all  other. 

The  women  she  met  and  tried  to  find  pleasant  were 
chiefly  interested  in  their  households,  in  the  difficul 
ties  caused  by  the  emancipation  of  the  slaves,  and 
in  the  awkward  subject  of  the  misgovernment  of  the 
South.  There  were  but  few  subjects  which  were 
free  from  peril,  and  such  intellectual  sympathies 
as  Constance  possessed  awakened  little  interest 
among  overburdened  women  whom  many  forms  of 

59 


60  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

disaster  had  left  with  too  constant  thought  of  the 
morrow. 

What  help  and  advice  Constance  required  she 
found  in  the  Averill  house,  where  now  and  then  they 
ate  a  meal  and  were  at  all  times  welcome  guests. 
The  older  woman  discovered,  to  her  husband's  joy, 
a  novel  pleasure  in  Constance  Trescot's  music;  and 
it  became  common  for  the  old  general  and  his  wife 
to  appear  of  an  evening,  and  while  the  men  smoked 
their  pipes  on  the  porch  the  piano,  Susan's  wed 
ding-gift,  was  opened,  and  song  after  song,  or  the 
tones  of  the  greater  music,  soothed  and  pleased  the 
pale  little  lady  who  sat  a  silent  listener,  or  pleaded 
for  "just  one  more,  my  dear." 

Then,  too,  Susan  sent  the  new  books  and  the 
magazines,  and  these  were  passed  on  to  the  Averills, 
who  formed,  by  degrees,  an  increasing  attachment 
to  the  young  man  and  his  wife,  and  became  thought 
fully  busy  in  the  difficult  task  of  bringing  them  into 
cordial  relations  with  what  was  best  in  the  town. 
As  far  as  was  possible  to  a  woman  like  Constance, 
the  regard  was  returned.  She  had  all  her  life  had 
a  singular  incapacity  for  generous  division  or  shar 
ing  of  her  affection.  Once  it  had  been  wholly  Su 
san's.  It  was  now  George  Trescot's,  and  this  pre 
disposition  was  reinforced  by  a  passion  deep,  jeal 
ous,  and  exacting.  The  man  so  long  lonely  sunned 
himself  in  the  warmth  of  all  that  an  intelligent  and 
beautiful  woman  brought  to  help  and  glorify  his 
life,  with  no  mind  to  criticize  the  quality  of  the 
woman's  love. 

And  so  the  latter  days  of  April  passed,  and  the 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  61 

warmth  of  May  and  June  came,  while,  with  the  all- 
sufficient  company  of  books,  music,  and  talk,  time 
moved  onward.  In  the  evening  he  read  to  her  or 
told  her  of  his  work,  and  she  of  what  she  had  seen 
and  done.  Of  the  keen  sense  he  had  of  hostility 
in  the  very  air  of  the  place  he  said  but  little.  She 
was  but  too  anxiously  aware  of  it,  and  said  as  little. 

On  an  evening  early  in  June  the  general  came  in, 
and  leaving  Constance  alone  with  her  open  piano, 
the  two  men  went  out  on  to  the  porch. 

"I  came  in,  Mr.  Trescot,  because  I  want  to  talk 
of  the  squatters.  I  heard  to-day  that  there  may  be 
trouble.  I  wish  my  friend  Mr.  Hood  were  more  rea 
sonable.  ' ' 

"He  is  not,  and  never  will  be,  and  there  is  nothing 
to  do  but  to  serve  the  usual  notices  on  them." 

"It  has  already  excited  a  good  deal  of  feeling. 
The  squatters  will  resist,  or  at  least  two  of  them 
will.  The  fact  is  that  I  have  been  unable  to  make 
up  my  mind  in  the  past  to  turn  out  three  old  sol 
diers  of  my  own  regiment.  One  of  these  is  a  lame 
man,  crippled  in  the  war.  Cannot  you  wait  until 
the  suit  for  the  water-front  has  been  tried?" 

"It  is  low  down  on  the  docket,  and  it  will  be 
October  before  it  can  come  up.  But  what  would 
be  gained  by  that— by  waiting?" 

The  general  was  unprepared  to  reply.  He  was 
merely  inclined,  like  most  old  men,  to  put  off  the 
disagreeable,  having  that  faith  in  the  helpfulness 
of  time  which  is  a  part  of  the  business  creed  of  the 
aged. 

He  said  at  last  that  he  was  of  opinion  that  Grey- 


62  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

hurst  was  stirring  them  up.  The  eviction  of  a  lot 
of  old  soldiers,  one  of  them  eighteen  years  on  the 
ground,  father  and  son,  would  further  prejudice 
an  already  hostile  public  opinion,  and  make  it  the 
harder  to  secure  a  just  verdict  in  regard  to  the 
question  of  title  to  the  lands  beyond  them  on  the 
river. 

' '  What  I  disliked  to  do  about  these  men,  Mr.  Tres- 
cot,"  he  said,  "will  be  dangerous  for  you  to  at 
tempt.  I  think  it  right  to  tell  you  that.  Their  land 
is  not  valuable  for  steamboat  landings,  and  for  any 
other  purpose  it  is  useless,  because  the  squatters 
never  can  sell  it;  but  they  won't  give  up,  and  are 
utterly  indifferent  to  law,  and  quite  well  aware  that 
the  community  is  on  their  side.  Best  let  them  alone 
just  now.  Wait  a  little." 

"No,  I  must  go  on." 

"It  will  be  at  the  risk  of  your  life." 

He  could  have  said  nothing  better  fitted  to  add 
vigor  to  Trescot's  resolute  intention.  He  replied, 
laughing:  "I  presume  that  we  have  both  been  shot 
at  pretty  often." 

"But  this  is  different,  Trescot." 

"Yes,  I  know  that.  But  am  I  to  believe,  general, 
that  an  opponent  lawyer  deliberately  advises  an 
assassination  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  no,  I  beg  you  not  to  misunderstand  me;  I 
spoke  rather  too  positively.  Greyhurst  would  never 
do  that ;  and,  upon  my  word,  he  never  did  anything 
deliberate  in  his  life.  The  man  is  impulsive  and 
quick  to  resent,  and  very  imprudent  in  talk.  He 
is  in  debt,  and  if  he  can  win  this  suit  he  will  prob1- 


. 

CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  63 

ably  receive  a  large  contingent  fee.  These  men,  es 
pecially  that  fellow  named  Coffin,  have  been  to  see 
him,— I  pointed  the  man  out  to  you  on  the  street 
yesterday.  Mr.  Greyhurst  has  told  them  that  you 
surely  mean  to  evict  them.  I  do  not  think  he  can 
have  gone  further." 

"If  he  said  only  that  I  mean  to  evict,  that  is  true. 
I  would  tell  them  that  myself.  Was  there  anything 
else?" 

"No;  but  there  are  ways  of  saying  things.  It 
was  none  of  his  business.  They  did  not  consult  him 
as  a  lawyer,  and  he  was  merely  making  mischief. 
These  mountain-men  who  are  now  squatted  on  the 
flats  come  to  me  like  children.  They  were,  some  of 
them,  in  my  company  when  I  first  went  out,  and 
they  look  to  me  for  protection.  It  is  a  damned  dis 
agreeable  business,  sir ;  and  none  the  easier  for  John 
Greyhurst 's  interference  and  Mr.  Hood's  stupid  ob 
stinacy.  ' ' 

"I  presume,  general,  that  you  really  could  not 
make  up  your  mind  to  act  on  Mr.  Hood 's  determina 
tion  to  evict." 

"I  must  confess,  Mr.  Trescot,  that  I  would  not. 
I  think  I  said  as  much.  The  legal  right  no  one 
can  dispute;  but  I  could  not  come  down  on  these 
poor  devils  with  the  law  without  being  looked 
upon  as  an  oppressor,  and,  what  is  worse  just 
now,  as  the  instrument  of  a  Northern  man.  Even 
for  me,  my  dear  Trescot,  to  evict  mercilessly 
men  who  have  lived  there  five,  ten,  even  eighteen 
years  unmolested— even  for  me,  sir,  there  might  be 
risk." 


64  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"And  for  me,"  queried  Trescot,  smiling,  "much 
more  risk?" 

* '  That  is  my  belief,  sir.  I  do  not  think  Mr.  Hood 
has  ever  taken  in  the  situation." 

"No;  it  is  his  land.  The  men  must  go.  For  him 
it  is  simple,— but  for  me  and  you  there  are  the 
human  ties  to  land  men  have  cleared  and  plowed, 
the  sense  of  the  home,  and  all  manner  of  associations. 
Mr.  Hood  prides  himself  on  being  exact  in  business. 
Out  of  it  he  is  generous,  even  lavish.  He  has  not 
imagination  enough  to  15e  largely  charitable.  I 
never  saw  a  man  like  him." 

"Then,  sir,"  said  the  old  general,  grimly  hu 
morous,  "he  had  better  lavish  on  you  a  good  re 
volver  or  a  first-class  rifle.  What  I  could  not  or 
would  not  do,  you  will  surely  risk  your  life  if  you 
try  to  do.  I  may  as  well  say  to  you  that  my  chief 
reason  for  giving  up  Hood's  agency  was  his  infer 
nal  obstinacy  about  these  squatters.  Did  he  tell 
you  that  I  had  said  so,  and  that  no  reputable  gen 
tleman  in  St.  Ann  would  accept  the  position?" 

"No,  he  did  not,"  returned  Trescot,  somewhat  sur 
prised  at  this  revelation  of  Mr.  Hood's  methods. 

"Well,  no  one  here  would  take  it  on  his  terms, 
and,  as  I  see  it,  he  has  placed  you  in  what  is  a  po 
sition  of  real  danger.  Even  now,  before  you  have 
moved  legally,  these  men  are  sure  they  will  be 
turned  out.  They  are  not  men  to  wait,  and  the 
whole  town  is  on  their  side.  Think  it  over.  A  very 
little  money  would  settle  the  business." 

"You  are  no  doubt  right;  but  what  can  I  do?  I 
must  give  up  the  agency  or  act  on  Mr.  Hood's  or- 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  65 

ders.  I  came  here  to  do  so,  and  I  mean  to  move 
in  the  matter.  How  can  I  hope  to  convince  him  if 
you  failed?" 

The  general  laid  a  hand  on  Treseot's  knee,  and 
said  very  earnestly: 

"Wait  until  I  write  to  him  again.  I  have  known 
lives  lost  in  this  country  for  far  less  things,  and  if 
you  are  set  on  taking  legal  action  I  beg  that  you 
will  go  about  armed." 

Trescot  laughed.  "Why,  my  dear  general,  I  am 
half  crippled,  and  it  would  be  simply  useless.  Do 
you  all  carry  revolvers?" 

"I  do  not;  but  if  I  were  bent  on  following  out 
Mr.  Hood's  orders  I  most  assuredly  should  do  so, 
and,  too,  I  should  be  rather  careful  how  I  went  out 
at  night." 

Trescot  thanked  him  and  said:  "You  will  do  no 
thing  with  Hood;  but  could  not  we  do  something 
with  these  men  if  you  and  I  saw  them  together?" 

"It  is  worth  trying.  I  shall  go  with  you  with 
pleasure.  Before  I  leave  let  me  say  a  word  more 
about  that  land  suit.  It  was  first  brought  the  year 
after  the  big  flood  in  sixty-three.  Who  suggested 
to  the  Baptiste  people  to  dispute  Hood's  title  I  do 
not  know.  Two  lawyers  have  had  it;  one  died  and 
one  threw  up  the  case.  Then  it  came  into  Grey- 
hurst's  hands,  and  has  hung  on.  I  had  too  slight 
evidence  in  Mr.  Hood's  favor  to  want  to  try  it,  and 
Greyhurst  evidently  took  it  with  the  hope  of  for 
cing  a  compromise.  I  can't  think  he  believes  their 
claim  just." 

"Well,  I  shall  urge  it,  and  we  can  make  him  come 


66  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

to  time.  It  is  very  much  like  a  sort  of  legally  dis 
guised  blackmail.  What  kind  of  man  is  he?  I 
ought  to  know.  You  said  he  was  impulsive." 

"Yes,  it  is  as  well  that  you  should.  A  rather  un 
usual  person.  He  has  had  a  wild  life,  but  is  not 
uncultivated.  He  certainly  has  a  high  opinion  of 
John  Greyhurst,  and  the  most  damned  insecure 
temper  I  ever  met  with.  Halloa!  Talk  of  him  an 
other  time.  Listen  to  that!" 

There  was  a  low,  mellow  roll  of  murmurous  thun 
der.  The  general  rose.  "We  are  in  for  one  of  our 
big  thunder-storms.  It  will  cool  the  air.  Say 
good-by  to  Mrs.  Trescot.  I  must  hurry. ' '  He  went 
away  around  the  house  in  haste. 

As  Trescot  stood  looking  at  the  darkening  sky 
a  blinding  splendor  of  violet  light  made  bright  the 
distant  river  and  the  march  of  dark  masses  of  cloud 
across  the  star-lighted  sky.  "Come  out,"  he  called 
to  his  wife.  "The  general  has  gone,  Constance; 
come  out  on  the  porch." 

She  rejoiced  in  a  great  storm,  as  she  did  in  any 
display  of  the  might  of  nature,  such  as  the  wild  sea 
drama  of  a  gale  on  her  own  rock-bound  coast.  She 
came  out  at  once  and  they  walked  into  the  garden. 
The  herald  wind  of  the  coming  storm  shook  the 
house  and  brought  a  cool  breath  of  freshness. 

"How  delicious  the  air  is,  George,  and  how  mag 
nificent,  how  glorious!" 

Swift  javelins  of  light  flashed  incessant,  with 
crashes  of  thunder,  and  soon  the  sudden  downfall 
of  rain  drove  them  to  the  shelter  of  the  porch. 

"No,  I  can't  go  in,  George.     I  never  before  saw 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  67 

such  a  storm.    I  love  it.    I  should  like  to  be  once  in 
an  earthquake." 

''Not  I,"  he  returned,  laughing.  "I  saw  one  in 
New  Mexico.  I  prefer  to  face  again  the  worst  fire 
I  was  ever  under.  I  got  out  of  a  window  on  to  a 
shed,  and  the  house  went  down  behind  me." 

Again  a  vast  flare  of  lightning  made  every  drop 
of  rain  in  the  air  a  moment's  jewel. 

The  rain  blows  in  here ;  get  your  rain-cloak, ' '  he 
said.    "Wait,  I  shall  get  it— or  better  to  go  in." 

"Oh,  no;  I  must  see  it.  You  could  not  find  the 
cloak." 

She  left  him  where  he  stood  enjoying  the  storm. 
As  the  quick-coming  flashes  lighted  the  hill  slope  he 
saw  a  man  moving,  very  slowly  as  it  seemed  to  him 
for  one  storm-caught,  some  thirty  feet  beyond  the 
garden  fence.  He  called  out,  "Halloa!  come  in 
here." 

Surprised  to  receive  no  reply,  he  called  again.  A 
moment  after,  amid  still  more  vivid  light,  Trescot 
was  aware  of  a  flash  lower  down  on  the  hillside, 
and  of  the  sound,  once  familiar,  of  a  rifle-shot.  The 
broken  glass  of  the  window  just  to  the  left  jangled. 
As  the  instant  lightning  flared,  Trescot,  seeing  the 
man  moving  down  the  hill,  ran  through  the  garden 
and  out  of  the  gate  in  hot  pursuit,  thinking  quickly 
as  he  caught  sight  of  him  at  moments,  "It  was  the 
old-fashioned  rifle;  he  can't  reload.  By  George! 
he  is  lame;  I  shall  have  him." 

He  was  not  twenty  feet  away  when  Trescot 's  foot 
caught  in  a  tangle  of  briers  and  he  fell.  He  rolled 
over  on  his  lame  shoulder,  and  in  some  pain  got  up 


68  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

to  find  lie  had  lost  his  man  in  the  wood  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill.  He  stood  still  a  moment  in  the  rain, 
and  then  walked  back  up  the  rise  of  ground. 

His  wife  was  on  the  porch.  "Where  have  you 
been?  "What  was  that,  George?  I  heard  glass 
break." 

Concealment  was  impossible.  "I  am  all  right.  A 
man  shot  at  me;  one  of  those  squatters,  I  suppose. 
I  saw  him  plainly;  he  was  lame.  Come  in,  dear.  I 
should  have  had  him  in  a  moment  if  I  had  not 
fallen." 

"You  are  not  hurt?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"No;  but  come  in.  The  shot  went  quite  wide  and 
broke  the  glass.  Do  not  mention  it  to  those  blacks. 
It  must  appear  to  have  been  an  accident  while  I 
was  closing  the  shutters." 

When  they  were  in  the  lighted  room  and  the  house 
shut  up,  he  saw  how  pale  she  was.  He  put  his  arm 
around  her.  "Constance,  love,"  he  said,  "this  will 
not  occur  again."  He  was  by  no  means  sure.  "Do 
not  be  worried ;  I  am  to  see  these  men  with  Averill 
in  a  day  or  two.  We  shall  settle  with  them  in  some 
way." 

"But  what  will  you  do?  and  how  can  I  live  here 
with  the  chance  of  having  you  brought  home  to  me 
dead?  Oh,  this  barbarous  country!  And  I  made 
you  come— and  my  uncle,  I  shall  never  forgive 
him." 

At  last  he  persuaded  her  to  go  to  bed.  She  passed 
a  restless  night,  almost  without  sleep— perhaps  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  of  vigorous  health. 

When,  next  day,  she  insisted  on  his  not  leaving 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  69 

her,  he  said  at  last:  "We  shall  walk  to  the  Averills', 
and  I  shall  call  for  you  after  I  have  gone  over  some 
of  the  old  French  deeds.  I  shall  not  be  long."  Her 
very  visible  anxiety  troubled  him,  and  the  more  be 
cause  it  was  reasonable.  She  was  not  easily  an 
swered. 

"But  what  will  you  do,  George?"  she  went  on. 
"Can't  you  arrest  him?  Something  must  be  done, 
and  without  delay.  I  shall  write  to  uncle." 

"No,  you  must  not  do  that;  it  would  be  of  no  use. 
Before  he  could  reply  I  shall  have  consulted  with 
the  general  and  done  something."  He  had  no  clear 
idea  of  what  he  should  do,  except  that  he  still  meant 
to  visit  the  squatters  with  Averill.  He  said  as  much. 

"But  I  cannot  sit  still  and  wait,"  she  returned. 
"I  simply  cannot." 

Such  reassurance  as  he  was  able  to  give  quite 
failed  to  satisfy  her.  She  wrent  slowly  up-stairs,  step 
by  step,  deep  in  thought,  and  then,  making  a  sud 
den  decision,  dressed  herself  with  unusual  care  and 
came  down  to  join  him.  Although  she  commonly 
talked  much  when  with  her  husband,  as  they  walked 
on  she  barely  answered  him,  and  finally  left  him  at 
Mrs.  Averill 's  gate. 

During  the  night,  as  Constance  lay  awake,  she  had 
reproached  herself  again  and  again  for  having  urged 
her  husband  to  accept  her  uncle's  offer.  What  now 
he  would  do  had  not  satisfied  her.  As  she  walked 
by  his  side  she  kept  on  perplexing  herself  about 
a  situation  in  which,  as  a  woman,  she  felt  herself 
powerless.  After  an  uneasy  half-hour  with  Mrs. 
Averill,  to  whom  she  said  nothing  of  what  had  hap- 


70  CONSTANCE  TKESCOT 

pened,  she  took  her  leave,  and  with  a  sudden  and 
well-defined  resolution  in  her  mind  went  down  the 
steep  road  from  the  bluff,  and  leaving  the  busy  cot 
ton-marts  and  -presses  behind  her,  followed  the  river 
bank.  The  path  led  through  scrubby  undergrowth 
on  to  rudely  cultivated  clearings.  Here  were  two 
well-built  log  cabins.  In  front  of  the  nearer  one  a 
man  well  beyond  middle  age  was  seated  on  a  stump 
engaged  in  oiling  the  lock  of  a  rifle.  As  she  came 
upon  him  he  stood  up  in  wonder  at  the  loveliness  of 
the  wandering  stranger. 

She  said:  "Will  you  kindly  give  me  a  drink  of 
water,  and  may  I  sit  down?  I  am  tired." 

"Would  you  come  in,  ma'am,  out  of  the  sun?" 

She  followed  him,  and  took  the  chair  he  offered, 
and  the  tin  cup. 

"What  good  water  you  have!     Thank  you." 

As  he  moved  she  observed  his  lameness,  and 
sharply  observant,  saw  about  her  no  evidence  of  a 
woman's  care.  This  was  the  man  she  sought. 

"Yes,  ma'am;  it  's  a  spring  below  the  bluff." 

"What  a  handsome  bearskin!  Did  you  shoot 
him?" 

"Yes;  last  winter,  up  in  the  Virginia  hills." 

' '  Are  you  a  good  shot  ? ' ' 

"I  reckon  I  am." 

"But  you  missed  my  husband  last  night." 

"Great  Scott!"  he  exclaimed,  "who  told  you 
that?" 

"He  saw  you.  It  is  useless  to  deny  it,  and  the 
fact  is,  Mr.— what  is  your  name?" 

"I  'm  Tom  Coffin,  and  I  just  want—" 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  71 

"Wait  a  little.  If  you  had  killed  him  you  would 
have  killed  your  best  friend." 

"Well,  now,  that  's  pretty  good.  My  friend! 
'T  ain't  a  matter  to  talk  over  with  women.  He  's 
got  to  let  me  alone.  My  father,  that  's  dead,  and 
me,  we  have  been  here  eighteen  years,  and  now 
comes  your  man  and  says  git  out." 

"Is  the  land  so  good?" 

"No,  it  is  n't;  but  it  's  mine,  and  it  's  all  I  have." 

"Suppose  my  husband  were  to  offer  to  do  one  of 
two  things?" 

"Well,"  he  said,  "he  ain't  offered  nothing." 

"  If  he  wins  our  suit  about  the  bounds  of  the  land 
below  you  on  the  river,  and  would  give  you  a  deed 
for  five  acres  on  the  bluff,— good  land,  too,— would 
you  take  it  in  exchange  for  what  does  not  belong  to 
you?" 

"I  would;  but  he  has  n't  got  it.  Mr.  Grey  hurst 
says  he  won't  git  it." 

Then  the  man  became  of  a  sudden  suspicious. 

"Look  here,  ma'am;  I  ain't  used  to  dealing  with 
ladies.  Did  Mr.  Trescot  send  you?  He  need  n't 
have  been  afraid." 

"Afraid!"  she  said  proudly,  rising  as  she  spoke. 
"George  Trescot,  my  husband,  afraid!  It  was  not 
he  who  ran  last  night.  Who  was  it  ran  from  an 
unarmed  man?" 

Then  in  a  moment  she  was  back  in  a  well-played 
part. 

"Mr.  Coffin,  I  came  here  just  because  I  am  a 
woman  and  a  young  wife.  My  husband  'does  not 
know,  or  I  never  should  have  been  allowed  to  come. 


72  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

I  want  to  make  sure  that  you  will  not  kill  an  un 
armed,  crippled  man.  I  can't  stand  by  and  wait  to 
see  what  will  happen.  I  will  not  go  until  you  prom 
ise  me  that  you  will  agree,  if  we  win,  to  exchange 
your  clearing  for  the  better  land  below;  or  if  you 
will  not  do  that,  tell  me  now  what  you  will  take  to 
move  if  we— I  mean  my  uncle— does  not  win  his 
suit." 

Coffin  weakened.  This  gracious  woman  with  her 
soft  voice  and  eyes  full  of  tears  captured  the  man. 

"Who  's  going  to  make  sure  of  the  pay?" 

"I  shall  pay.  Come,  now,  let  us  be  friends.  I 
am  really  on  your  side.  You  can't  fight  the  law. 
Some  day  you  will  have  to  go  and  get  nothing 
for  all  you  have  done.  Come,  now,  what  will  you 
take?" 

"Would  you  say  three  hundred,  ma'am?" 

"No;  four  hundred,"  she  said  quickly.  It  was 
the  half  of  her  little  personal  savings. 

"I  '11  take  it,"  he  said. 

She  put  out  her  hand.  He  took  it  shyly,  as  she 
said: 

"Are  you  busy  all  day?" 

"No,  I  'm  not." 

"Could  you  come  up  in  the  afternoons  and  help 
me  in  my  garden,  for  three  dollars  a  week  ? ' ' 

1 '  I  will  if  your  man  wants  me ;  he  won 't  want  me. ' ' 

"Yes,  he  will.  You  should  have  come  at  first  and 
talked  to  him.  You  are  both  old  soldiers;  and, 
Mr.  Coffin,  you  must  be  a  Northern  man— -you  have 
a  good  old  New  England  name." 

"No;  my  father  was.  He  came  from  Massachu 
setts."  Then  he  was  silent. 


CONSTANCE  TKESCOT  73 

She  saw  that  he  was  still  unsatisfied.  ''Ah,  my 
own  State.  Is  there  anything  else?  I  want  it  all 
clear." 

"Well,  it  is  n't,  and  I  want  to  know.  The  fact 
is,  ma'am,  Mr.  Greyhurst  told  me  you  folks 
would  n't  do  anything,  but  just  drive  me  out.  Fa 
ther  and  I  have  been  here  eighteen  years,  and  my 
sister  has  the  cabin  just  below  here.  Her  man  's 
sick,  and  there  's  two  children,  and  go  was  the 
word,  just  like  we  were  dogs." 

"If  Mr.  Greyhurst  told  you  that,  he  said  what 
was  not  true.  He  knew  nothing  about  it,  or  what 
Mr.  Trescot  would  do.  My  husband  was  coming 
here  with  General  Averill  to-morrow." 

"Was  he?— he  and  my  old  captain?" 

"Yes,  and  you  come  like  a  coward  and  shoot  at 
an  unarmed  man,  who  is  ready  to  help  you." 

"O  Lord,  drop  that!  I  was  just  fooled  by  that 
man  Greyhurst.  I  '11  get  even  with  him.  I  was 
thinking— me  and  another  man— that  we  'd  go  and 
see  Mr.  Trescot.  Greyhurst  he  said  it  was  no  good. 
You  can  tell  your  husband,  if  he  's  minded  not  to 
be  hard  on  us,  I  can  help  him  about  those  bounds 
down  below.  I  won't  say  no  more  till  we  talk— 
me  and  him." 

Constance,  surprised,  returned:  "I  '11  leave  you 
to  settle  that  with  him,  but  don't  go  and  what  you 
call  get  even  with  Mr.  Greyhurst."  She  saw  mis 
chief  in  this.  "Keep  it  all  to  yourself;  do  not  let 
him  know  that  you  are  on  our  side.  Promise  me; 
you  know  I  trust  you." 

"I  can  hold  my  tongue,  ma'am.  Darn  that  law 
yer  chap ! ' ' 


74  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"Well,"  she  said,  "here  is  your  first  week's 
wages. ' ' 

"No;  I  don't  take  money  I  have  n't  earned." 

"Yes,  you  must,"  and  she  left  the  notes  in  his 
great  rough  hand. 

' '  Of  course  Mr.  Greyhurst  will  see  you  in  my  gar 
den." 

"Well,  it  ain't  none  of  his  business.  Guess  I  '11 
be  the  fooler  this  time.  When  will  I  come  ?  I  don 't 
half  like  it." 

"But  you  will.  Come  to-day  at  six.  It  is  too 
late  for  work,  but  I  want  Mr.  Trescot  to  talk  to  you." 

"Well,  I  '11  come.    I  've  said  it,  and  I  '11  come." 

"Good-by." 

Well  pleased,  she  went  away  across  the  clearing 
and  up  the  bluff,  determined  that  her  uncle  should 
agree  to  pay,  or  that  she  herself  must  do  so.  "I 
have  bought  a  man  and  saved  a  man's  life,"  she  said 
joyously.  She  was  glad,  elate,  and  at  ease. 

She  had  been  so  long  with  Coffin  that  her  hus 
band  had  gone  home.  She  hurried  her  steps  and 
entered  the  house  just  after  him.  A  great  joy  was 
in  her  heart.  She  would  tell  him  in  this  way— no, 
it  should  be  in  that  way.  The  adventure  delighted 
her,  and  the  feeling  that  she  had  been  able  to  help 
her  husband  and  make  him  secure. 

"I  missed  you,"  he  said,  as  they  sat  down  in  the 
little  library;  "what  made  you  so  late?" 

"I  went  for  a  walk.  I  went  down  to  the  river 
and  then  through  the  woods  to  where  your  squatters 
live." 

"Constance,  you  must  not  do  that  again.     God 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  75 

knows  what  might  happen  among  those  lawless  men. 
This  fellow  Coffin— I  know  him  now— is  one  of  the 
worst  of  them.  Promise  me,  love." 

«I  can— I  do.    But  I  saw  your  lame  scoundrel." 

"Saw  him!    You  saw  him!" 

"Yes."  And  she  poured  out  the  whole  story,  while 
he  listened  amazed,  and  not  too  well  pleased.  She 
saw  the  gravity  of  his  look,  the  slight  frown  as  she 

finished. 

"Was  I  wrong,  George?"  she  said  anxiously. 

He  hesitated  and  then  replied : 

"Yes;  this  is  not  a  woman's  business.  You  have 
pledged  me  without  thought  to  what  your  uncle 
will  never  agree  to  do ;  and  the  money— where  is  it 
to  come  from?" 

"I  have  it,   George,  and  more  than  enough, 
will  not,— oh,  I  cannot  let  this  state  of  things  go 
on.     My  uncle  must   give  you  freedom  to  act  as 
seems  best.    It  is  he  who  put  you  in  peril.    I  won't 
stand  it," 

"And  still,  Constance,  this  must  not  occur  again. 
It  was  thoughtless  and  unwise. 

"Thoughtless!  Oh,  George,"  she  cried,  with  a 
sudden  passion  of  tears,  "it  was  anything  but 
thoughtless.  I  scarcely  closed  my  eyes  last  night. 
I  have  been  in  an  agony  of  apprehension.  I  could 
not  wait  to  see  what  would  happen.  If  I  had  been 
a  man,  and  loved  you  as  no  man  can  love— oh,  1 
should  have  killed  him !  Do  you  think  this  kind  of 
thing  will  go  on?  And  I  brought  you  here,  I  made 
you  come,  I  bribed  you  with  my  love,  myself.  Now 
I  can  sleep,  you  are  safe.  I  have  found  an  enemy 


76  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

and  made  him  a  friend.  Oh,  this  horrible  town! 
Let  us  go.  Let  us  give  up." 

She  went  on  with  broken  phrases  and  discon 
nected  words,  and  was  soothed  only  when,  at  last,  as 
she  lay  sobbing  on  his  breast,  he  said :  '  '  Try,  dear,  to 
control  yourself;  we  must  talk  this  over  quietly. 
Now,  wait  a  little;  do  not  speak." 

By  degrees  she  steadied  herself,  and  at  last,  wip 
ing  her  eyes,  said:  "There,  it  is  over;  but  I  must 
finish,  and  I  won't  be  so  weak  again.  I  do  think 
you  must  see,  George,  that  this  was  not  with  me 
a  matter  of  choice.  I  had  to  do  it.  You  are  the  one 
thing  in  life  for  me.  There  is  no  other.  Oh,  you 
have  your  work  and  your  enlarging  future,  your  re 
ligion.  I  have  you.  That  is  my  sole  excuse.  To 
morrow  I  would  do  it  again.  That  is  all.  And  if  I 
have  done  what  my  love  made  me  do,  at  least  you 
must  see  that  out  of  it  comes  some  good." 

He  had  been  amazed  and  annoyed  by  her  abrupt 
interference,  but  as  she  talked  he  quieted  himself, 
and  while  in  wonder  at  the  abandonment  of  a  pas 
sion  so  all-possessing,  began  to  feel  that  her  pledges 
must  be  kept  to  the  letter.  He  said  so,  to  her  joy, 
and  added,  as  he  kissed  her  tears  away :  "  I  am  sorry 
you  went,  but  I  love  you  the  more  for  the  courage 
that  carried  you  through." 

She  smiled.  "Ah,  George,  it  was  the  courage  of 
selfishness;  it  was  the  courage  of  love.  And  I  am 
forgiven  ?  I  want  you  to  say  it. ' ' 

"Hush!  We  shall  never  need  the  word— never. 
And  so  I  am  to  see  that  scamp  to-day  at  six.  He 
must  be  a  pretty  cool  fellow."  The  humor  of  it 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  77 

struck  him.  "Do  you  expect  to  be  present?"  lie 
asked,  laughing.  "To  be  shot  at  overnight  by  a 
man  who  proposes  to  attend  to  your  garden  the  day 
after  is  something  delightfully  unusual." 

There  was  no  laugh  in  it  for  Constance.  The 
man  was  back  again  in  his  every-day  calm.  The 
woman  remained  excited,  restless,  and  even  ex 
hausted  by  the  strain  of  the  morning  and  the  talk 
with  her  husband.  Her  mind  was  still  on  the 
matter. 

"You  must  write  to  Uncle  Rufus  and  simply 
say  you  mean  to  have  your  way." 

"I  will  think  it  over.  Probably  I  shall  do  so, 
but  you,  in  the  meantime,  must  not  do  what  I  alone 
ought  to  do." 

"No,"  she  returned,  somewhat  meekly;  "I  am 
out  of  the  business  now.  But,  George,  don't  tell 
that  man  he  is  a  scoundrel.  He  is  the  captive  of 
my  bow  and  spear." 

"No,  I  think  I  shall  manage  it ;  but  I  hardly  think 
I  can  apologize  for  not  being  hit." 

"Please  don't,"  she  said,  and  went  up  to  her 
room,  glad  then,  and  again  after  lunch,  to  lie  down 
and  rest  with  a  mind  at  ease.  The  rather  grim 
humor  of  the  situation  did  not  strike  her  as  it  would 
have  done  her  sister. 


VI 


LITTLE  before  six  Coffin  stood  hesi- 
Bating  at  the  gate  in  front  of  the  house. 
He,  too,  had  some  reasonable  sense  of 
embarrassment.  As  Trescot  walked 
across  the  front  room  he  saw  him,  and, 
understanding,  went  out  at  once,  and  said,  ''Come 
in;  glad  to  see  you."  Coffin  advanced,  with  his 
halting  gait,  until  they  met  at  the  door.  "No,  Mr. 
Trescot;  I  don't  go  in  till  I  Ve  said  my  word.  I 
was  told  you  were  a  hard  man  and  meant  to  kick 
me  out.  I  was  bred  up  in  the  Tennessee  mountains, 
and  I  Ve  seen  men  shot  for  less  things  than  that. 
I  Ve  been  on  that  ground,  me  and  father,  eighteen 
years;  and  I  just  want  to  say  right  here  that,  be 
lieving  what  that  cuss  told  me,  I  was  justified." 

"I  see,"  said  Trescot;  "but  were  you  not  a  little 
hasty?" 

"I  don't  say  I  might  n't  of  been,  and  I  'm  not 
a  man  that  crawls  easy;  but  I  'm  that  damn  glad 
to-day  I  did  n't  git  you  that  if  I  was  a  prayin' 
cuss  I  'd  down  on  my  knees  and  thank  the  Lord. 
That  there  woman  of  yours,  she  's  a  wonder. ' '  Then 
Trescot  understood,  and  liked  it. 

"Mr.  Coffin,"  he  said,  "I  have  a  Confederate's 
bullet  in  my  shoulder,  and  bear  no  malice.  I  cer- 

78 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  79 

tainly  have  none  for  the  many  who  missed  me.  I 
want  to  say  that  I  stand  by  my  wife's  bargain." 

1  'Then  I  '11  come  in." 

The  two  men  shook  hands  and  passed  into  the 
library.  When  they  were  seated,  Trescot  said :  ' '  Do 
you  want  it  now  in  black  and  white?" 

"No;  if  I  trust  a  man,  I  trust  him.  I  Ve  got 
something  to  say  to  you  about  those  lands,  and  just 
you  listen.  You  Ve  got  a  good  title  to  the  land 
I  'm  on;  we  all  know  that.  A  little  money  will 
clear  off  the  other  squatters  if  I  give  up  and  go.  I 
can  settle  them.  I  understand  from  General  Averill 
that  it  's  the  big  deep-water  front  below  that  's  the 
trouble." 

"Yes,  that  is  so.  You  will  do  me  a  great  service 
if  you  can  help  us. ' ' 

"I  can.  The  bounds  were  set  by  blazing  trees. 
My  father  helped  run  that  line  before  ever  we  set 
tled  here.  The  blazed  trees  on  the  west  was  washed 
away  nigh  ten  years  ago,  clean  gone  down  the 
river.  Now,  about  the  ones  back  on  the  bluff  that 
mark  the  bound  to  eastward— 

Trescot  broke  in:  "No  one  can  find  the  blazed 
trees  where  they  ought  to  be.  There  are  no  end 
of  big  ones,  but  no  blaze  on  any  of  them." 

"Well,  there  's  ways  of  looking.  Fact  is,  those 
blazes  is  growed  over.  Why,  it  's  near  on  to  forty 
years.  The  blazes  leave  a  hollow  like.  The  bark 
grows  over  and  hides  them.  I  can  find  the  trees; 
they  're  oaks.  Cut  them  down  and  saw  them  up, 
and  you  have  your  blaze  plain  as  day.  One  is  a 
walnut." 


80  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"If  you  can  do  that  when  I  'm  ready,  Mr.  Coffin, 
you  will  get  a  bigger  farm  than  my  wife  promised; 
but,  meanwhile,  you  must  hold  your  tongue,  and 
tell  no  one,  and  not  quarrel  with  Greyhurst.  Did 
you  tell  him  of  this?" 

"No,  I  did  n't.  It  was  n't  any  concern  of  mine, 
and  I  don't  like  him  none  too  well.  I  'm  your  man, 
sir ;  and  if  you  don 't  mind  a  poor  chap  like  me  say 
ing  it,  I  'm  her  man,  too.  I  never  saw  no  woman 
like  her." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Trescot,  pleasantly.  "And  now 
she  wants  you  here  to-morrow,  about  four  o'clock, 
for  her  garden  work." 

"I  '11  come." 

Trescot  knew  the  habits  of  the  place  too  well  to 
fail  to  say: 

"Have  a  little  bourbon,  Mr.  Coffin?" 

"Don't  mind  if  I  do." 

"Your  health,"  said  Trescot. 

"And  yours,  too." 

His  host  laughed. 

"I  see,"  said  Coffin,  grinning;  "I  was  n't  wish 
ing  you  much  health  last  night;  but  if  you  can 
afford  to  lay  that  to  one  side,  I  guess  I  can.  And 
I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  can't  shoot  better  than 
that.  It  was  the  lightning  bothered  me." 

Much  amused  at  this  odd  form  of  vanity,  Tres 
cot  made  a  light  reply,  laughed,  and  the  woodsman 
went  away,  leaving  him  doubly  at  ease,  and  as 
tonished  at  the  luck  which  had  brought  him  the 
evidence  so  long  desired. 

When  it  became  plain  to  Constance  that  she  had 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  81 

not  only  turned  a  foe  into  a  friend,  but  had  also 
been  the  means  of  adding  valuably  to  the  proof 
needed  to  insure  her  uncle's  title,  she  was  over 
joyed,  and  began  to  make  more  sure  the  adhesion 
of  her  garden  helper. 

She  explained  to  him  with  patience  the  work  she 
required,  helped  with  such  luxuries  as  were  needed 
by  the  brother-in-law  who  was  slowly  dying,  and 
soon  bound  to  her  a  man  who  had  been  unlucky, 
and  had  at  last  fallen  into  a  state  of  despondency 
and  become  reckless  and  vindictive. 

One  warm  evening  early  in  July,  Trescot  said  to 
her,  "I  shall  become  jealous  of  the  general,  Con 
stance.  He  says  you  are  capturing  all  these  old 
rebels. ' ' 

She  laughed  gaily.  "Yes,  men  are  easy  game, 
but  not  their  womankind.  But  I  did  have  my  little 
triumph  this  afternoon.  I  walked  in  quite  by  chance 
on  their  society  meeting.  It  was  at  Mrs.  Averill's 
—something  for  the  orphans  of  Confederate  sol 
diers.  They  were  pretty  cool,  and  I  was  all  sweet 
ness  At  last  I  got  up  and  apologized  for  my  in 
trusion,  and  said  I  must  go.  But  then  the  dear 
old  lady  asked  me  if  I  would  not  sing  for  them 
while  they  sewed.  One  or  two  of  them  were  civil 
enough  to  say  they  would  be  glad  to  hear  me.  I 
sat  down  at  that  queer  old  piano,  and  what  do  you 
think  I  did?" 

"Heaven  knows!" 

"You  could  never  guess." 

"I  admit  it  as  hopeless." 

"I  sang  'Dixie'  for  them.     Oh,  George,  I  sang 


82  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

it  as  they  never,  never  heard  it  before.  They  quit 
sewing  and  just  sat  and  listened.  When  I  turned 
half  round  on  the  stool  some  of  them  were  crying. 
One  old  lady  came  and  kissed  me,  and  they  crowded 
around  the  piano  thanking  me.  Then  another,  a 
shy  little  old  maid,  said,  'Would  you  mind  playing 
"My  Maryland"?'  I  had  to  say  I  did  not  know 
it— and  then,  George,  I  had  an  inspiration.  I 
turned  to  the  piano,  and  broke  out  into  that  really 
fine  rebel  song  you  like,  and  I  sang— oh,  I  sang 
it  well— 'Stonewall  Jackson's  Way.'  That  time 
they  really  gave  up.  They  clapped  and  praised  me, 
and  were  so  surprised  when  I  said  you  liked  it. 

"As  I  finished  I  saw  the  old  general  standing  in 
the  doorway.  He,  too,  thanked  me  with  his  fine, 
old-mannered  way;  and,  George,  I  felt  what  an 
awful  hypocrite  I  was." 

"Oh,  but  you  are  not.  You  were  not.  Think 
what  these  people  have  suffered,  and  what  now  have 
they  left,  except  splendid  memories  and  a  song? 
Think  of  their  deaths,  their  poverty,  the  humilia 
tion  of  defeat!  I  have  shared  that  feeling  with  a 
well-whipped  army.  Imagine  it  for  a  whole  peo 
ple." 

"I  know— I  know;  but  they  hate  us.  I  have 
heard  enough  to  know  what  is  said  of  you  here. 
Coffin  told  me." 

' '  Oh,  hang  the  fellow !  We  are  doing  better  than 
I  ever  expected  to  do.  If  your  uncle  had  any  sense 
we  should  have  no  trouble  at  all.  I  wrote  to  him 
last  night  after  you  went  to  bed." 

"And  you  were  positive?" 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  83 

"I  was;  but  this  is  my  second  letter  to  the  same 
effect,  and  the  first  was  unanswered." 

"How  like  Uncle  Rufus!  That  reminds  me  I 
have  a  letter  from  Susan.  You  must  hear  it.  There 
is  a  message  for  you ;  I  will  get  it. ' ' 

While  she  was  gone  he  reflected,  not  altogether 
pleasantly,  upon  the  strong  feeling  of  dislike  with 
which  Constance  still  regarded  the  people  among 
whom  they  had  chosen  to  live.  He  did  not  compre 
hend  that  it  rested  very  largely  on  her  belief  that 
they  were  hostile  to  him.  Feeling  as  he  supposed 
her  to  feel,  he  did  not  quite  like  that  for  him  or  in 
his  interest  she  should  do  as  she  had  done.  In  his 
own  intercourse  with  the  men  he  met  he  had  been 
simple  and  natural;  and  as  most  of  them  had  been 
soldiers,  they  met  on  a  ground  of  common  self- 
respect,  avoiding  political  discussions.  That  some 
of  them,  and  all  who  had  not  fought,  were  still 
embittered,  he  knew  too  well,  and  knowing,  was 
careful,  kindly,  and  magnanimous. 

Susan's  letter  was  laughingly  discussed  as  they 
sat  in  the  library. 

"DEAR  CONNY: 

"Come  soon  and  restore  decent  peace  to  this 
household.  Imagine  my  combination  of  mirth  and 
satisfaction  when  uncle  told  me  that  General  Averill 
had  written  him  he  had  seen  you  in  church  last 
Sunday  and  thought  you  looking  well.  He  was  in 
one  of  his  mild  rages.  You  can  imagine  a  box- 
turtle  angry.  I  advised  him  to  write  to  you  and 
complain.  He  went  away  declaring  he  would  alter 


84  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

his  will.  As  he  has  made  three  wills  in  a  year, 
this  need  not  alarm  you.  If  there  be  a  disease  of 
indecision,  he  has  it. 

"About  George's  last  letter  I  really  had  to  fight. 
'There!'  he  said;  'read  that.  He  wants  me  to  pay 
squatters  to  leave ;  he  thinks  the  suit  about  my  title 
ought  to  be  compromised;  he  talks  about  the  bad 
feeling  in  the  town  because  I  will  not  spend  money 
or  improve  my  property.' 

"Then,  as  our  old  cook  says,  I  just  spoke  up.  I 
said  George  was  right,  and  that  uncle  ought  to  want 
to  help  his  unlucky  rebel  friends  who  had  lost 
everything.  This  quite  upset  him.  '  Rebels !  I  pre 
sume  you  to  mean  Confederates.'  I  was  advised  to 
study  the  constitutional  history  of  the  United  States 
of  America.  You  know  his  full  phrases.  I  advised 
him  to  read  what  George  Washington  wrote  about 
State  feeling.  I  had  not  the  most  foggy  idea  what 
G.  W.  wrote,  but  it  stopped  him  and  he  went  off 
again  on  my  good  brother-in-law.  He  declared  that 
George's  want  of  tact,  and  your  opinions,  and  the 
general's  weak  ways,  and  George's  despotic  manage 
ment  had  been  responsible  for  making  him,  Rufus 
Hood,  unpopular  in  that  strange  town  of  which 
you  write  such  amusing  accounts.  He  had  received 
the  'St.  Ann  Herald'  with  an  article  on  absentee 
owners.  Oh,  my  dear  Conny,  he  was  at  his  loveliest 
worst.  You  were  to  blame,  and  if  you  had  not  gone 
to  church  you  would  not  have  lost  the  little  com 
mon  sense  you  had,  and  would  have  conciliated 
these  people.  Of  course  you  had  been  exasperating, 
and  then  it  was  George,  George,  etc.,  etc.  At  last 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  85 

I  told  him  he  was  like  Aunt  Nancy,  who,  as  you  may 
recall,  fell  ill  of  a  plum-cake  she  had  made,  and 
never  could  settle  in  her  mind  whether  it  was  the 
raisins,  the  currants,  or  the  citrons.  Uncle  Rufus 
has  a  long-buried  fraction  of  a  talent  for  seeing  a 
joke,  and,  dear,  he  really  laughed  till  he  looked 
five  years  younger,  and  until  he  remembered  that 
his  mirth  was  suicidal,  and  began  to  go  over  it  all 
again.  At  last  I  said,  'But  you  must  do  something.' 
He  said  he  would  think  it  over  and  write  to  George, 
and  perhaps  he  had  better  go  to  St.  Ann  when  you 
return.  He  had  been  misunderstood.  Some  one 
named  Greyhurst  (is  n't  he  one  of  the  claimants?) 
had  written  to  him  about  a  compromise." 

"What  a  muddle!"  said  George.  "Confound 
Greyhurst!  Imagine  Mr.  Hood  in  an  attitude  of 
conciliation !  Well,  what  else  ? ' ' 

She  read  on: 

"I  really  pity  George  Trescot.  If  I  were  he,  I 
should  do  what  seems  best,  and  take  the  chance 
of  a  back-down,  or  of  my  uncle  yielding,  as  he  is 
pretty  sure  to  do.  Come  soon,  Conny;  you  must 
need  our  seaside  freshening.  The  roses  say  come, 
and  so  do  I. 

"Yours  always, 

" SUSAN  HOOD." 

"Constance,"  said  Trescot,  "Susan  is  right;  soon 
or  late,  I  must  have  my  way  or  give  up  a  hopeless 
task." 


86  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"Well,  I  have  always  said  so;  but  don't  be  in  a 
hurry,  George.  I  feel  as  if  now  it  will  be  all  easy. 
The  squatters  you  can  manage  with  Coffin's  help. 
You  cannot  try  the  land  case  until  October.  Then  in 
August,  when  you  go  home  with  me,  together  we  can 
bring  Uncle  Rufus  to  some  decent  sense  of  what  is 
needed." 

"I  hate  to  tell  you,  Constance;  but  I  cannot  go 
East  this  summer.  The  general  and  Mrs.  Averill 
are  going  to  New  York  on  the  third  of  August  and 
will  take  care  of  you.  He  has  asked  me  to  remain 
in  charge  of  his  own  work,  and  on  the  tenth  to  go 
to  New  Orleans  about  a  claim  for  damaged  cotton 
sent  here  last  year.  It  is  a  great  compliment  and 
involves  the  sharing  of  a  large  fee  if  I  can  settle  the 
matter.  I  am  sorry." 

"Oh,  George,  how  can  I  leave  you?" 

' 1 1  know,  dear ;  I  hesitated  to  tell  you,  but  it  is 
really  a  turning-point  in  my  career.  If  I  win  I 
shall  oblige  several  people  of  importance  and  make 
friends;  and,  Constance,  I  am  sure  that  we  need 
them,  or  that  I  do.  Right  or  wrong,  the  way  people 
feel  has  much  to  do  with  the  settlement  of  land 
cases.  Juries  are  human,  and  here,  I  fancy,  they 
are  far  too  readily  affected  by  public  opinion.  This 
is  why  I  welcome  every  chance  of  making  friends." 

"I  see;  but  I  don't  like  it.  Could  not  you  join 
us  later?" 

"No.  On  my  return  I  must  give  myself  up  en 
tirely  to  the  land  case.  The  general  will,  of  course, 
act  as  my  senior,  but  he  looks  to  me  to  collect  evi 
dence.  The  man  who  surveyed  the  land  is  dead, 


CONSTANCE  TBESCOT  87 

and  I  have  to  go  to  Indiana  to  see  his  widow  and 
secure  her  evidence  and  his  books.  There  is  really 
no  more  time  than  I  require,  and  you  would  not 
wish  me  to  fail." 

"I  see  perfectly,"  she  said.  "I  must  go  and  you 
must  stay.  I  am  feeling  this  moist  heat,  and  you 
are,  too." 

"No,  even  my  wicked  arm  is  less  ill  behaved.  I 
really  think  the  heat  suits  it,  and  I  never  was  bet 
ter." 

Her  intelligence  was  convinced,  but  not  her  heart. 
And  with  some  people  it  requires  a  good  deal  of 
head  to  keep  the  heart  from  revolt.  That  for  every 
reason  it  was  best  for  him  to  remain  was  the  one 
thing  that  aided  her  to  submit.  Before  she  finally 
yielded,  the  increasing  heat  of  July  made  excuses 
difficult,  and  she  began  to  feel,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  a  sense  of  languor  which  she  had  to  ac 
knowledge  as  a  cry  of  the  body  for  her  native  air. 

She  had  made  up  her  mind  that  the  summer  plans, 
which  for  a  time  would  separate  them,  were  such 
as  to  serve  her  husband's  interests.  Had  they  been 
able  to  do  without  what  his  profession  began  to 
bring  in,  her  real  desire  would  have  been  to  cut 
off  his  work  entirely,  and  to  leave  him  no  relations 
to  life  except  those  of  a  love  which  on  her  side  she 
felt  to  be  boundlessly  sufficient.  She  had  been 
trained  to  certain  habits  which  passed  for  duties; 
but  being  without  any  ultimate  beliefs  by  which 
to  test  her  actions  when  called  upon  by  the  un 
usual,  the  instincts  of  a  too  natural  creature  were 
apt  to  be  seen  in  what  she  did  or  felt.  She  would 


88  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

possibly  have  denied  even  to  herself  that  she  had 
no  interests  in  life  which  did  not  consider  George 
Trescot,  and  would  have  smiled  at  the  idea  that 
her  jealousy  of  whatever  took  him  from  her  side 
might  in  the  end  injure  the  man  she  loved,  and 
would  in  time  become  selfishly  exacting. 

As  Trescot  expected  to  act  only  as  junior  counsel, 
he  had,  of  course,  many  consultations  with  Averill. 
On  one  of  these  occasions  the  general  said  to  him: 
"When  I  leave,  you  may  have  occasion  to  see  and 
talk  with  Greyhurst.  He  tells  me  that  he  has  called 
on  you." 

"Yes,  but  we  were  out.  I  returned  his  visit,  but 
I  have  seen  very  little  of  him.  I  suppose  we  shall 
try  the  case  in  October." 

"Yes,  unless  he  contrives  to  put  it  off  as  he  has 
done  before.  I  think  he  is  doubtful— as,  in  fact, 
he  ought  to  be.  Is  he  waiting  for  some  offer  from 
us?  I  think  that  likely." 

"He  will  not  get  it;  but  he  would  if  I  had  my 
way." 

"Well,  he  will  call  on  you  about  it.  He  said  as 
much.  Be  a  little  careful.  He  is  like  some  of  the 
rest  of  the  bar,  a  trifle  indifferent  as  to  the  right 
or  the  wrong  of  his  client's  case;  but  he  did  not 
suggest  this  suit,  and  he  is  a  better  fellow  outside 
of  his  profession  than  in  it." 

"Do  you  think  he  believes  that  Mr.  Hood  does  not 
own  that  land?" 

"Certainly  not;  but  he  is  willing  to  make  Mr. 
Hood  pay  for  what  the  river  did  when  it  ate  away 
the  Baptiste  water-frontage.  It  is  not  a  highly 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  89 

moral  attitude,  and  yet  there  is  something  to  be 
said  for  it." 

"Yes,  as  to  that  I  entirely  agree  with  you,"  said 
Trescot.  "Considering  what  we  know  and  he  does 
not,  he  ought  to  lose  the  suit.  If  Mr.  Hood  were 
reasonable,  I  should  like  to  put  all  our  evidence  be 
fore  Grey  hurst,  and  then  offer  some  form  of  com 
promise.  As  it  is,  we  must  try  it,  and  take  the  risk 
of  failure." 

"Yes;  but  I  do  not  feel  quite  so  secure  as  you  do. 
Well,  that  is  all.  You  will  take  care  of  our  case 
this  summer,  while  I  am  away,  and  you  will,  of 
course,  write  to  me  if  you  need  advice.  And,  my 
dear  fellow,  be  a  little  careful  of  our  noon  sun,  and 
of  the  evening  coolness." 

"Thanks,  general.  I  have  every  reason  to  want 
both  health  and  life." 


VII 


RESCOT  felt  more  than  was  conve 
nient  Constance's  too  steady  call  upon 
his  time  during  the  three  weeks  which 
passed  before  she  left  him.  With  both 
will  and  wish  to  gratify  her,  it  was  not 
always  easy  or  even  possible.  The  general  had  be 
come  attached  to  him,  won  by  his  considerate  ways 
and  the  charm  of  a  kindliness  interpreted  by  man 
ners  which  were  winning  and  gracious.  He  was  in 
dustrious,  and  possessed  of  that  form  of  legal  in 
tellect  which  reaches  conclusions  with  a  swiftness 
due  to  unusual  rapidity  of  thought,  but  which  to 
slower  minds  appears  to  have  the  quality  of  in 
tuition.  The  older  lawyer,  who  reasoned  slowly, 
began  more  and  more  to  admire  and  to  trust  him, 
and  spoke  of  the  possibility  of  a  partnership  in 
the  near  future. 

As  the  days  went  by,  Trescot,  seeing  his  wife's 
languor  and  her  increasing  sense  of  disappointment 
at  his  absence  during  the  hours  of  business,  gave  her 
all  the  time  he  could  spare  from  wearisome  study  of 
the  old  French  titles,  and  the  other  work  in  which 
the  general  asked  his  aid,  and  for  which  he  was 
fairly  paid. 

Whatever  absence  the  daylight  hours  exacted,  the 
90 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  91 

evening  belonged  to  Constance,  and  he  resisted 
every  increasing  temptation  to  carry  home  for  com 
pletion  the  unfinished  work  of  the  day,  unless  it  was 
of  a  nature  to  interest  her.  While  to  the  tired  man 
at  evening  her  music  was  restful,  and  to  the  mind 
that  which  change  of  climate  may  be  to  the  body, 
he  also  enjoyed  when  with  her  an  ever  widening 
satisfaction  in  awakening  to  larger  appreciation  a 
nature  long  shut  up  within  too  limited  intellectual 
bounds.  Under  the  thoughtful  guidance  of  a  man 
whom  war  and  a  keen  sense  of  responsibility  had 
helped  to  mature,  the  mind  of  the  woman  was  slowly 
unfolding.  On  one  of  these  cherished  evenings, 
shortly  before  her  departure,  she  was  perched  on  the 
arm  of  Trescot's  chair  and  sharing  the  delightful 
fun  of  "Milkanwatha,"  that  best  of  all  parodies. 
They  were  laughing,  merry  as  two  children,  when 
the  black  maid  appeared  and  said  there  was  a  gen 
tleman  in  the  parlor  waiting  to  see  Mr.  Trescot. 

"This  is  too  bad,  George,"  said  Constance;  "can 
we  never  be  left  alone  ? ' ' 

In  fact,  they  were  rarely  disturbed  in  the  even 
ing;  but  of  this  he  did  not  remind  her,  and  said 
merely:  "Take  to  your  piano,  dear;  I  shall  not  be 
long."  She  smiled,  and  he  went  into  the  parlor, 
where  he  found  Greyhurst  moving  about  or  pausing 
to  look  at  the  engravings  hung  on  the  walls. 

"Good  evening,"  he  said,  as  Trescot  welcomed 
him.  "It  is  pleasant  to  hear  people  with  a  talent 
for  laughter." 

"Oh,  you  heard  us?  We  laugh  a  good  deal  in 
this  house.  Sit  down.  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  Or 


92  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

will  you  come  into  the  library  and  see  Mrs.  Tres- 
cot?" 

"With  pleasure;  but  first  may  I  ask  for  a  few 
minutes'  talk  over  the  business  of  those  lands?  The 
general  is  soon  going  away  and  I  thought  it  well 
to  ask  you  to  consider  the  matter  again. ' ' 

"Certainly;  if  you  want  to  say  anything  I  shall 
be  most  ready  to  hear.  We  have  already  discussed 
it  pretty  fully.  You  must,  of  course,  be  aware  that 
I  am  not  acting  altogether  as  I  should  desire  to  do, 
but  am  more  or  less  hampered  by  the  owner's  in 
structions."  As  he  looked  at  his  guest  there  was 
something  about  him  which  put  Trescot  suspiciously 
on  guard.  He  added:  "But  pray  go  on,"  and  said 
to  himself,  "The  man  is  anxious." 

Grey  hurst  said :  "  I  want  first  to  say  to  you  once 
more  that  the  case  you  propose  to  try  in  October  you 
will  lose.  Even  a  man  like  Mr.  Hood  may  be 
brought  to  reason.  The  deeds  were  lost  in  the  war. 
There  are  no  records;  the  office  was  burned,  and 
you  have  to  fall  back  on  surveys  of  which  there 
is  no  evidence  except  brief  memoranda,  if  even  these 
are  to  be  had." 

Trescot  knew  well  the  value  of  silence.  He  made 
no  sign  of  dissent,  and,  as  he  meant  to  try  the  case, 
had  no  idea  of  enlightening  a  man  who  might 
profit  by  what  Trescot,  the  general,  and  Coffin  alone 
knew. 

"There  is  another  consideration.  You  have  not 
been  here  long,  Mr.  Trescot,  and  perhaps  are  not 
fully  aware  of  the  dangerous  hostility  provoked 
by  Mr.  Hood's  foreclosures,  and  the  cruelty  of  his 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  93 

intention  to  drive  out  those  old  Confederate  soldiers 
from  their  homes." 

And  still  Trescot  held  his  tongue;  but,  as  Grey- 
hurst  seemed  to  pause  for  a  reply,  he  said : 

"Well,  Mr.  Greyhurst,  what  else?" 

The  persistent,  entirely  courteous  listening  began 
to  embarrass  the  older  man,  who  was  some  ten  years 
the  senior  of  his  host.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  and 
then,  setting  his  large,  dark  eyes  on  Trescot,  went 
on: 

"You  will  pardon  me,  I  am  sure,  if  I  repeat 
that  you  are  a  stranger  to  our  ways  and  feelings, 
and  that  you  are  a  young  man  put  by  Mr.  Hood  in 
a  false  position." 

And  still  the  cooler  man  failed  to  speak. 

"I  have  already  said  to  the  general  that  we  are 
open  to  settle  this  matter  by  some  equitable  divi 
sion  of  the  lands  at  the  bend.  I  now  come  to  you, 
and,  sir,  I  represent  the  public  sentiment  of  this 
community.  These  lands  are  now  useless,  and  will 
be  till  this  matter  is  settled." 

"Mr.  Greyhurst,"  said  Trescot,  "I  am  greatly 
obliged  by  your  friendly  visit,  and  am  sorry  to  be 
unable  to  meet  you  on  a  common  ground.  My  client 
refuses  to  compromise  or  to  surrender  any  part  of 
his  land  on  deep  water  at  the  bend.  The  courts 
must  decide,  and  we  are  instructed  to  try  the  case 
in  October." 

"You  will  be  sure  to  lose  it." 

"So  much  the  better  for  you,"  laughed  Trescot. 
"If  winning  be  so  certain,  why  seek  for  a  compro 
mise?  The  foreclosures  are  the  only  remedy  for 


94  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

years  of  unpaid  interest  or  of  absolutely  illegal 
possession.  As,  however,  you  are  naturally  in 
terested  in  these  poor  people,  I  have  no  hesitation 
in  telling  you  that  some  of  the  mortgages  have  been 
amicably  arranged,  and  that  time  will  be  given  to 
others.  I  hope  to  have  no  trouble  with  the  squat 
ters." 

He  was  indisposed  to  say  more. 

''Then  your  man  Hood  must  all  of  a  sudden  have 
become  damned  amiable." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Trescot,  rising;  "Mr.  Hood  is 
Mrs.  Trescot 's  uncle.  Allow  me  to  close  the  door." 
It  had  been  left  on  a  crack,  and  the  piano  had  just 
ceased  to  be  heard.  "One  moment,"  he  added,  as 
Greyhurst,  flushing  deeply  at  the  implied  reproof, 
was  about  to  reply.  "One  moment.  I  have  listened 
to  you  patiently,  although  I  fail  to  see  what  the 
other  cases  in  my  charge  have  to  do  with  the  issue 
we  shall  try  in  the  fall.  I  shall,  however,  again  ad 
vise  my  client  of  your  desire  to  settle  our  case,  and 
I  may  say  also  that  if  he  is  willing  I  shall  gladly 
present  to  him  any  offer  you  may  make." 

"Then  let  him  make  one." 

"Frankly,  Mr.  Greyhurst,  I  do  not  think  he  will, 
nor  do  I  believe  that  he  would  accept  one.  You 
are  an  older  lawyer  than  I,  and  must  know  that  we 
cannot  always  make  our  clients  reasonable." 

"Perhaps  if  he  knew  the  state  of  feeling  here  he 
would  understand  the  gravity  of  the  situation.  I 
am  sure  that— " 

"Excuse  me  if  I  interrupt  you.  Public  opinion 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter ;  and,  as  you  spoke 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  95 

a  little  while  ago  of  what  I  suppose  I  may  call  hos 
tility  to  me,  I  may  add  that  it  will  in  no  way  af 
fect  the  course  I  shall  take." 

Greyhurst  moved  uneasily  as  he  listened,  and 
then  said  abruptly:  "You  will  find  out  when  you 
come  before  a  jury  of  Southern  men." 

"I  shall  feel  sure  they  will  do  what  is  right,  and 
I  am  glad  to  say  that,  personally,  I  have  met  with 
much  kindness  in  St.  Ann,  nor  do  I  think  political 
feeling  will  affect  your  courts  or  the  course  of  jus 
tice.  Let  me  add  that  I  have  not  of  late  been  aware 
of  any  personal  hostility  such  as  you  speak  of." 

"Well,  you  will  see,"  said  Greyhurst;  "and  soon, 
too." 

"I  do  not  quite  understand  you." 

"Indeed!  You  will  know  better  when  I  tell 
you  that  you  were  blackballed  last  night  at  the 
club." 

Trescot  flushed  and  returned  instantly:  "I  asked 
the  general  not  to  present  my  name,  and  if  you  or 
any  one  presumes  to  suppose  that  this  annoys  me, 
he  is  much  mistaken,  and  yet  more  so  if  he  ven 
tures  to  believe  that  it  will  in  any  way  deter  me 
from  doing  my  duty  as  a  lawyer.  I  do  not  see 
what  motive  you  can  possibly  have  in  telling  me, 
unless  you  really  suppose  that  I  am  to  be  moved 
by  fear  of—  His  voice  rose  as  he  spoke,  but  his 
speech  was  suddenly  checked  by  the  entrance  of 
Mrs.  Trescot. 

"Mr.  Greyhurst,  I  believe.  Do  not  let  me  inter 
rupt  you.  I  came  in  to  get  a  book.  How  you  men 
can  talk  with  my  piano  going  I  do  not  understand. 


96  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

When  you  are  through,  George,  perhaps  I  may  have 
a  little  visit." 

Greyhurst  cooled  instantly.  He  was  in  the  pres 
ence  of  one  of  the  rare  women  who,  for  good  or 
ill,  attract  because  of  some  inexplicable  quality  of 
sex.  Incapable  of  analysis,  it  accounts  for  divorces 
and  ruined  households,  even  for  suicides  or  mur 
ders.  It  may  be  faithful  to  a  great  passion,  and  be 
modified  by  character  and  education,  and  even  by 
religion;  but  it  is  felt,  whether  the  woman  wishes 
it  or  not,  and  she  who  has  it  instinctively  knows 
its  power. 

As  Mrs.  Trescot  spoke  she  cast  her  large  blue 
eyes  on  the  man,  and  for  an  instant  he  was  dumb 
and  stood  in  mute  admiration;  nor  was  Trescot 
sorry  for  her  coming. 

"I  think  we  have  finished,"  he  said,  but  did 
not  urge  Greyhurst  to  accept  the  invitation  his  wife 
had  given. 

"I  shall  hope  for  the  pleasure  another  time," 
said  Greyhurst.  He  knew  that  he  should  like  to 
see  her  again,  and  he  had  said  enough  to  Trescot 
to  make  a  sudden  return  to  cordiality  difficult. 

''You  won't  forget,  Mr.  Greyhurst." 

He  said  something  pleasant  as  he  stood  facing  her 
—a  strongly  built  man  of  soldierly  carriage,  dark- 
skinned,  with  large,  regular  features,  and  the  high 
cheek-bones  which  told  of  his  remote  strain  of  In 
dian  blood.  As  he  left  Trescot  at  the  outer  door 
he  turned  and  said,  rather  to  his  host's  surprise: 
"If  I  have  been  abrupt  or  indiscreet  I  hope  you 
will  pardon  me.  I  sometimes  say  or  do  things  on 


CONSTANCE  TBESCOT  97 

the  impulse  of  the  moment,  and  then  regret  them. 
You  will  excuse  me." 

"Oh,  we  all  do  that  sort  of  thing  now  and  then; 
and  as  for  the  club,  it  is  of  no  moment,  although 
I  am  sorry  you  told  me.  Good-by." 

As  he  went  toward  the  drawing-room  he  said  to 
himself:  "What  a  strange  man!  Was  he  trying  to 
scare  me,  or  was  it  a  game  of  bluff?  And  then 
his  apology !  Confound  the  fellow  ! ' ' 

Meanwhile,  Greyhurst  walked  away  with  as  com 
plete  dismissal  of  the  lawsuits  and  all  other  earthly 
interests  as  if  he  were  Adam  in  the  garden  alone 
with  the  new-born  Eve.  He  was  thinking  of  the 
woman. 

It  was  the  effect  she  was  apt  to  produce  on  men, 
young  or  old.  He  felt  it,  even  although  it  recalled 
to  his  mind  a  woman  of  quite  different  type.  Then 
he  turned  to  thought  of  the  suit.  "Damn  my  tem 
per!"  he  exclaimed.  "That  confounded  Yankee 
was  as  cold-blooded  as  a  frog.  It  has  its  uses." 
He  felt  his  defeat. 

"WELL,  Constance,"  said  Trescot,  as  he  reentered 
the  library,  "how  much  did  you  hear  of  that  fel 
low's  agreeable  talk?" 

"A  good  deal  of  it— pretty  much  all." 
"I  am  sorry  you  heard  him.     I  did  not  want  to 
be  in  their  club;  but  it  is  the  civilians,  not  the  sol 
diers,  who  are  unfriendly,  and  really  it  is  of  no 
moment. ' ' 

"None,"  she  said.  "But  what  did  the  man  mean 
by  it  all?"  And  then  she  added:  "But  the  things 


98  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

he  said— oh,  George,  do  you  think  you  are  still  in 
any  danger  here?  Since  that  awful  night  I  cannot 
get  it  out  of  my  mind.  How  am  I  to  go  away?" 

He  comforted  her  as  best  he  could,  not  in  the 
least  degree  sharing  her  apprehensions. 

At  last  she  said:  "What  do  you  suppose  he 
wanted?" 

' '  I  think,  dear,  it  would  be  hard  to  say. ' '  He  did 
not  choose  to  admit  that  it  had  appeared  to  him 
to  be  an  attempt  to  alarm  him.  He  added  that  the 
man  had  been  foolish,  and  yet  was  not  a  fool.  "I 
fancy  him  to  be  in  debt,"  he  said,  "and  to  depend 
too  anxiously  on  the  issue  of  this  suit." 

"I  do  not  like  him." 

He  laughed.  "Would  you  like  any  one  who  did 
not  think  George  Trescot  a  legal  angel?" 

"I  should  not,"  she  cried,  and  kissed  him.  "He 
is  very  handsome,  but  he  made  me  uncomfortable." 

"Oh,  he  is  quite  harmless." 

"So  is  a  poor  little  dead  snake  on  the  road,  but 
I  jump  when  I  see  it." 

"  Go  to  bed,  Mrs.  Eve, ' '  he  said,  laughing. 

A  moment  after  she  put  her  charming  head 
through  the  half-open  doorway  and  cried:  "I  hate 
him!" 

"Oh,  go  to  bed,  you  bad  child.  You  don't  hate 
anybody. ' ' 

"But  I  do,"  she  murmured,  as  she  went  up  the 
stair. 

Her  weekly  letter  to  Susan  went  next  day.  She 
wrote : 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  99 

"DEAR  SUSAN: 

"In  two  weeks  I  shall  be  at  Eastwood,  but  how 
I  am  to  live  there  two  months  with  uncle,  and  with 
out  George,  I  do  not  yet  see.  I  am  sometimes  sur 
prised  to  recognize  how  completely  he  is  all  of  life 
to  me;  and  then  I  am  glad.  I  rejoice  in  my  good 
looks  and  my  voice  because  they  are  for  him,  and 
because  they  help  him  among  these  strange  people 
who  are  still  sullen  and  bitter  about  the  war  they 
brought  upon  us,  and  about  what  it  cost  them.  As 
if  we,  too,  had  not  had  our  share !  George  expects 
me  to  be  very  tender  of  their  feelings,  and  I  am— 
indeed  I  am;  but  when  I  see  George  nursing  that 
crippled  arm,  and  evidently  in  pain  of  which  I  am 
never  to  speak,  I  sometimes—  But  I  will  say  no  more 
to  you,  my  only  confessor.  When  George  says  that 
I  am  to  forget  and,  what  I  cannot  forget,  forgive, 
I  can  almost  do  it.  Indeed,  I  go  to  church  because 
he  goes,  and  sing  the  hymns— you  should  hear  me. 
If  it  would  make  him  more  happy  I  could  al 
most  pretend  to  believe  what  he  believes.  It  can 
not  be  only  a  creed  which  makes  him  so  tender,  so 
entirely  true,  so  thoughtful,  and,  above  all,  what  I 
am  not,  so  magnanimous  concerning  these  people. 
He  brings  home  no  stories  of  his  annoyances,  but 
I  have  heard  and  seen  more  than  enough  to  make 
me  cry  at  times  because  I  urged  him  to  come  to  this 
place.  He  only  says:  'Why,  all  this  is  natural,  and 
must  pass  away  with  time.'  But  still  I  feel  that 
we  are  in  a  hostile  land. 

"Knowing  what  he  has  to  endure,  I  said  to  him 


100  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

last  week  that  his  religion  nowhere  orders  us  to 
forgive  the  enemies  of  those  we  love.  You  should 
have  seen  his  face.  I  got  a  proper  scolding;  and 
oh,  I  love  him  to  scold  me.  Can  you  understand 
that? 

"Last  night  we  had  a  visit  from  a  Mr.  Greyhurst, 
who  is  the  lawyer  of  the  people  who  dispute  uncle's 
land  claims.  I  overheard  them  talking  rather  high, 
and  suddenly  appeared  as  peacemaker.  The  man 
looked  at  me  and  was  quiet.  It  was  like  a  charm; 
but  the  way  he  looked  was  not  quite  pleasant.  A 
dark,  Spanish-looking  person,  with  overbold  eyes, 
and  very  handsome,  with  a  strong,  uneasy  face— 
a  curious  contrast  to  the  refinement  and  intellectual 
beauty  of  George,  who  looked  slight  and  almost 
frail  beside  this  man's  massive  figure.  Sometimes 
I  am  anxious  when  I  look  at  George  and  know  that 
he  has  to  remain  in  this  heat.  When,  in  your  last 
letter,  you  said  that  I  had  no  resource  in  me  or 
my  beliefs  against  the  sorrows  of  life,  I  had  a  sud 
den  and  horrible  fear  lest  you  might  have  been 
thinking  of  George,  and  then  I  felt  it  was  cruel  of 
you,  and  as  if  I  never  could  write  to  you  again ;  but 
I  ought  to  have  known  better.  This  strained,  anxious 
life  is,  I  suppose,  making  me  morbid,  and  perhaps 
something  else  is  having  a  like  effect. 

"George  has  heard  from  uncle,  who  either  does 
not  or  will  not  realize  the  state  of  affairs  here  among 
his  dear  rebels,  who  hate  him,  and  no  wonder.  At 
first  I  disliked  the  idea  of  his  coming  to  St.  Ann; 
but,  on  the  whole,  it  may  be  as  well.  He  can  be  stiff 
enough  in  a  letter,  but  not  when  he  is  face  to  face 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  J  101 

with  a  resolute  man.    He  will  learn  a  little  when  he 
comes. 

"  Yours  always, 

"CONSTANCE. 

"P.  S.— I  have  been  rather  depressed  of  late,  but 
this  is  largely  because  of  the  prospect  of  leaving 
George.  In  truth,  we  have  been  making  some  friends, 
and  just  now  the  town  is  lovely  with  flower-gardens. 

"0."" 


VIII 

RS.  AVERILL  had  been  absent  a  week, 
on  a  visit  to  friends  in  the  country,  be 
fore  Constance  saw  her  again. 

Constance,  standing  at  the  gate, 
watched  her  for  a  moment  as  she  moved 
among  her  flowers  in  the  front  garden.  The  old 
lady,  turning,  smiled  a  glad  welcome  for  the  face 
on  which  the  joy  of  youth  and  love  and  perfect 
health  were  plain  to  see.  "Ah,  for  shame!"  she 
cried,  looking  over  the  box  row,  "prying  at  an  old 
lady  alone  with  her  flowers.  Come  in,  my  dear;  I 
forgive  you.  If  you  knew  what  I  was  saying  to 
my  flowers  you  would  like  it ;  I  was  really  thinking 
of  you.  There  are  flowers  which  always  remind  me 
of  certain  people.  Oh,  no;  I  won't  tell  you  what 
I  was  thinking." 

' '  Then, ' '  said  Constance,  gaily,  ' '  I  shall  be  equally 
cruel  and  not  tell  you  what  delightful  things  were 
in  my  mind." 

"Let  us  trust  that  they  were  complimentary." 
She  was  so  pretty  and  so  sweetly  gracious,  with 
her  underlying,  pathetic  expression  of  abiding  sor 
row,  that  Constance  felt  tempted  to  say:  "What  a 
beautiful  old  lady  you  are !  I  wonder  what  I  shall 
be  like  if  I  live  as  long."  She  limited  herself  to 
saying:  "Yes,  they  were  as— well,  as  complimentary 
as  you  could  desire." 

102 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  103 

"Thank  you,  my  dear.  That  is  saying  a  great 
deal.  I  suppose  we  never  outlive  our  vanity.  Come 
in;  it  is  too  hot  for  you  here." 

' '  No,  there  is  shade  enough.  How  is  the  general  ? ' ' 
"Very  well,  for  him.  He  is  never  very  strong. 
Just  now  he  is  worried  because  of  what  your  hus 
band  told  him  of  Mr.  Greyhurst's  visit,  and  that 
miserable  business  of  the  club.  You  overheard  it,  he 
said.  The  general  blames  himself,  and,  of  course, 
did  not  mean  to  say  a  word  about  it  to  Mr.  Trescot. 
He  does  not  think  that  Mr.  Greyhurst  did  anything 
to  influence  the  vote." 

"Perhaps  not;  but  I  don't  like  and  I  don't  trust 
that  man." 

"I  do  not  like  him  either,  my  dear.  But  we  do 
hope  that  neither  of  you  will  think  that  the  old  offi 
cers  here  have  any  other  than  good-will  to  your  hus 
band.  Mr.  Greyhurst  is  a  very  strange  man.  He 
was  divorced  from  his  wife,  who  died  eighteen 
months  ago.  During  the  war  he  put  her  money 
into  Confederate  securities.  We  have  all  found 
them  rather  insecure";  and  she  smiled. 
"Yes;  so  I  have  heard,"  said  Constance. 
"At  one  time  he  was  on  General  Hill's  staff,  but 
he  was  constantly  quarreling,  and  the  general  says 
he  was  too  impulsive  and  resentful  to  be  a  good 
officer. ' ' 

"I  wish  some  one  else  had  the  case,"  said  Con 
stance. 

"Well,  my  child,  no  one  could  quarrel  with  your 
husband,  and,  after  all,  the  general  will  be  the  senior 
counsel. ' ' 


104  CONSTANCE  TBESCOT 

Constance  bent  over  and  kissed  the  little  old  lady, 
saying:  ''Thank  you;  you  always  comfort  me;  and 
then— oh!" 

Greyhurst  was  leaning  over  the  paling  fence. 
"Good  evening,"  he  said.  "May  I  come  in? 
What  good  luck  you  have  with  flowers !  I  see  Mrs. 
Trescot's  every  day  as  I  go  by.  I  fancy  they  grow 
best  for  the  ladies.  I  see  that  you  have  Coffin  work 
ing  for  you.  He  can  hardly  know  much  about 
flowers. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  am  teaching  him;  he  wanted  work,  and 
I  am  glad  to  help  him. ' ' 

"A  lazy,  worthless  vagabond,  Mrs.  Trescot,  I  fear; 
one  of  the  squatters.  I  am  surprised  he  would  work 
for  Mr.  Trescot  after  the  way  he  talks.  These 
squatters  are  pretty  saucy." 

"He  is  my  gardener,  not  Mr.  Trescot's;  and  as 
yet  my  husband  has  made  no  objection."  She  was 
quietly  amused  at  Coffin's  diplomacy. 

Mrs.  Averill,  a  little  puzzled,  looked  up  from  the 
flowers  she  was  pruning. 

"Well,"  returned  Greyhurst,  "that  is  a  comfort 
able  view  of  the  situation." 

"It  is  very  useful,"  said  Mrs.  Trescot,  "in  mar 
ried  life  for  husband  and  wife  to  know  how  to  hold 
their  tongues." 

"Quite  true,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Averill,  still  a 
little  in  the  dark. 

"Therefore,  when  Coffin  abuses  my  husband  I 
shall  say:  'Are  the  geraniums  doing  well?'  'Best  in 
town,  ma'am.'  Then  I  shall  say:  'Coffin,  I  forgive 
you.'  " 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  105 

Greyhurst  was  not  quite  up  to  the  light  give  and 
take  of  mere  chat,  to  which  Constance  was  trained. 
Mrs.  Averill  saw  in  it  a  tactful  effort  to  reduce  a 
serious  question  to  a  harmless  level.  The  man  felt 
himself  chaffed,  and  said:  "You  will  find  him  out." 

'  *  Not  in  work-hours, ' '  she  laughed.  ' '  Punctuality 
is  my  one  virtue.  That  I  insist  on,  even  in  a  hus 
band." 

"Will  you  not  come  in?"  said  Mrs.  Averill,  not 
liking  the  man's  ill-repressed  look  of  embarrassed 
annoyance. 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  retreat  under  fire.  I  must  go. 
Mrs.  Trescot  is  too  sharp  for  a  poor  old  Confederate ; 
I  shall  retire  before  worse  comes." 

"That  was  what  we  did  not  do  in  the  war,  Mr. 
Greyhurst,"  said  Mrs.  Averill,  gaily. 

"I  protest,"  said  Constance,  "against  considering 
me  as  an  enemy." 

"Oh,"  he  returned,  "after  all,  it  is  generally  the 
man  who  retreats.  I  ask  for  terms  of  honorable  sur 
render.  ' ' 

Mrs.  Averill  said,  smiling,  "You  may  march  out 
with  colors  flying,  and  here  they  are,"  giving  him 
a  rose. 

"And  Mrs.  Trescot 's?"  he  asked. 

"I  never  give  roses  out  of  other  people's  gardens, 
and  just  now  there  are  none  in  mine." 

He  took  off  his  hat,  saying :  "I  am  usually  too  late, 
or  too  early.  That  is  the  fate  of  some  of  us.  May 
I  hope  to  be  more  fortunate  when  your  roses  ap 
pear  ? ' ' 

"Perhaps,  if  you  are  very,  very  good,"  she  cried, 


106  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

relenting,  and  disposed  against  her  feelings  to  send 
him  away  in  a  good  humor. 

' '  Thank  you, ' '  he  said,  not  ill  pleased ;  and  setting 
Mrs.  Averill  's  rose  in  his  buttonhole,  left  them  alone. 

' '  My  dear  Constance,  were  you  not  rather  hard  on 
that  man?" 

"No;  he  was  insolent,  and  he  meant  to  be;  and  I 
know  he  lied  about  Coffin.  Tom  is  a  man  who  might 
kill  you,  but  he  would  never  work  for  a  man  and 
lie  about  him.  Heaven  knows  what  he  said  to  Mr. 
Greyhurst.  He  owes  him  a  grudge." 

"Yes,  my  dear;  but  it  is  worse  than  no  use  to 
make  a  man  like  John  Greyhurst  angry.  It  is  really 
a  poor  kind  of  triumph.  You  had  better  have  ap 
peared  not  to  notice  what  he  said." 

"I  could  not  help  it.  The  man  is  unpleasant  to 
me." 

"Best  not  to  show  it.  Come  in  and  let  us  talk 
over  our  plans.  Do  you  want  to  stop  in  Washing 
ton  on  your  way  North?" 

As  Constance  walked  homeward  she  acknowledged 
to  herself  that  she  had  been  unwise,  and  knew  as 
by  instinct  that  a  very  little  graciousness  to  this 
man  would  have  better  served  her  husband.  She 
smiled,  as  she  went  down  the  dusty  street,  at  her 
certainty  that  she  could  bring  the  man  to  her  feet 
like  a  fawning  spaniel.  She  read  with  natural  readi 
ness  the  eager  eyes  of  this  ungoverned  personality. 
Then  she  saw  in  her  mind  the  fine  lines  of  Trescot's 
face,  and  thought  of  the  restraint  and  patience  with 
which  he  refrained  from  urging  upon  her  opinions 
which  she  felt  with  intense  feeling  were  their  only 


CONSTANCE  TKESCOT  107 

ground  of  difference.  The  manners  of  a  man  to 
his  wife  are  a  final  test  of  conduct;  and  again  she 
smiled,  as  though  at  some  fresh  discovery,  and  the 
joy  of  its  tender  recognition. 

She  was  now  a  well-known  figure  in  the  town. 
Many  persons  acknowledged  her  greeting.  She  went 
into  two  or  three  shops,  helped  a  little  child  up  some 
steps,  and  left  with  every  one  a  pleasing  sense  of 
liberal  cheerfulness,  and  of  that  charm  of  manner 
which  made  her  somewhat  startling  beauty  a  con 
tribution  to  the  joys  of  life. 

As  she  came  out  of  a  shop  she  met  Coffin. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "Tom,  how  is  your  brother-in- 
law?" 

"He  's  failing,  ma'am." 

"Is  there  anything  you  need  for  him?" 

"Yes,  ma'am;  I  was  going  to  ask  you  something. 
He  says  would  you  come  and  read  out  of  the  Bible 
to  him?  We  can't  any  of  us  read  well." 

She  hesitated,  and  then  said  quickly,  "Yes,  I  will 
come ;  but  cannot  his  wife  read  ? ' ' 

' '  Yes ;  but  not  like  you  can ;  it  's  you  he  wants. ' ' 

"I  will  come.  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Greyhurst 
lately?" 

"Yes;  and  I  reckon  I  fooled  him  well." 

"You  abused  my  husband,"  she  said  merrily. 

"Who  told  you  that?    I  did— I  did." 

"Mr.  Greyhurst." 

"Well,  he  is  a  fool.  He  just  swallowed  it  all  like 
them  big  catfish  grabs  a  bait.  Well,  you  '11  come 
soon?  He  ain't  going  to  live  long." 

1 '  I  will  come ;  I  shall  be  there  to-morrow. ' ' 


108  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

As  Tom  left  her,  she  wondered  why  she  had  said 
she  would  read  to  the  man.  In  fact,  she  had  no 
ready  excuse  for  denying  so  simple  a  request. 

Not  far  from  her  home  she  was  aware  of  Grey- 
hurst.  He  met  her  and  turned  back,  walking  be 
side  her. 

"Mrs.  Trescot,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  was  rude  to 
you;  I  desire  to  ask  your  pardon." 

"Indeed,"  she  returned  sweetly,  "we  were  both, 
I  fear,  a  little  cross." 

' '  Thank  you ;  that  is  more  than  a  pardon. ' '  Paus 
ing  a  moment,  he  added  gravely:  "I  have  had, 
madam,  a  rather  sad  and  disappointing  life,  and  I 
suppose  it  has  soured  me.  Are  you  ever  sorry  for 
things  you  do?" 

Constance  was  less  amazed  at  the  odd  turn  his 
talk  had  taken  than  a  man  would  have  been,  for 
men  say  easily  to  women  things  they  never  could 
say  to  those  of  their  own  sex. 

"Yes,  I  am  sorry  every  day,"  she  returned. 

"I  was  hasty  in  what  I  said  to  Mr.  Trescot  the 
other  night.  I  fear  that  you  overheard  us,  and  I 
wish  now  to  assure  you  that  I  did  not  blackball  him 
at  the  club." 

' '  I  wonder, ' '  thought  she,  ' '  if  that  be  true.  * '  Her 
temper  was  rising,  but  she  said  coldly:  "The  whole 
matter  is  unimportant— entirely  unimportant." 

"Not  to  me,  madam,  not  to  me;  but  Mr.  Trescot 
has  a  way  of  being—" 

"Stop,  Mr.  Grey  hurst,"  she  said;  "you  forget 
yourself.  We  are  going  to  quarrel  again.  It  seems 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  109 

to  me  that  you  have  an  extraordinary  gift  of  say 
ing  disagreeable  things." 

''That  is  true.  My  life  is  one  long  story  of  re 
grets.  I— there  is  no  one  I  should  be  less  willing  to 
annoy  than  you." 

He  turned  his  dark  eyes  on  her  as  he  spoke,  for 
now  they  were  at  her  gate,  and  she  had  stopped. 

"I  am  sure  of  that,"  she  said. 

Very  strange  to  her  was  this  strong  man,  big  and 
athletic,  with  ardent  eyes  and  sudden  familiarities, 
and  impulsive  speech  and  childlike  regrets. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  saying  good-by,  but  did 
not  ask  him  to  come  in.  To  her  surprise,  he  bent 
over  it,  raised  it  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it,  and  lifting 
his  hat,  went  on  his  way. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "next  to  Uncle  Rufus,  that  is 
the  most  singular  man  I  ever  met.  I  wonder  if  he 
is  quite  sound  in  mind."  She  gave  a  queer  little 
glance  at  the  hand  he  had  kissed.  Among  the  older 
gentlemen  of  Creole  descent  it  was  not  rare  to  see 
this  pretty  usage.  But  this  man  she  had  not  seen 
-over  a  half-dozen  times,  and  it  was  out  of  doors. 
She  went  in,  wisely  resolving  to  say  nothing,  and 
much  inclined  to  avoid  Greyhurst  in  future. 


IX 


HE  increasing  heat  of  the  latter  days 
of  July,  the  dust,  the  dried-up  garden, 
and  the  mosquitos  helped  the  young 
wife's  faltering  will,  so  that  she  felt 
physically  convinced  that  a  change  was 
imperative.  And  there  was  also  another  and  a 
powerful  motive  for  care  of  her  health. 

She  said  to  her  husband  next  morning  at  break 
fast: 

"I  have  arranged  with  Mrs.  Averill  that  we  leave 
a  week  from  to-day,  on  the  evening  train." 

"I  am  glad  it  is  settled,  Constance.     I  shall  be 
happier  when  you  are  breathing  the  good  salt  air." 
"It  had  to  be,  I  suppose." 
"Yes,  it  had  to  be." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  said : 
"George,  Thomas  Wilson  has  asked  me— it  was 
Coffin  who  brought  the  message— if  I  would  go  to 
see  him  to-day." 

"Well,  why  not?    But  I  do  not  like  you  to  be  in 
those  clearings  alone." 
"Coffin  will  be  there." 

"That   will    answer,    I    suppose.      What   else    is 
there?" 

"He  wants  me  to  read  the  Bible  to  him.     His 
wife  cannot  read,  or  reads  badly.    These  people  are 

110 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  111 

amazingly  uneducated.  Why  cannot  lie  get  a 
preacher?  I  was  foolish  to  say  yes." 

"Well,  dear?" 

''Surely,  George,  you  must  understand  me." 

He  saw  her  difficulty  at  once,  and  said,  smiling: 
"You  may  trust  me  always  to  understand  you.  You 
know,  dear,  my  own  feeling  in  regard  to  freedom 
of  belief  and,  indeed,  of  unbelief.  You  know,  too, 
what  I  desire  and  never  urge.  I  see  your  difficulty, 
but  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  pretend  anything. 
He  will  ask  no  questions.  The  Bible  is  a  book— or, 
rather,  many  books.  We  have  read  much  of  it  to 
gether." 

It  was  true.  Without  any  concealed  intention  on 
his  part,  and  purely  as  noble  literature,  they  had 
read  at  times,  in  their  evenings  alone,  much  of  the 
great  Hebrew  poetry,  as  they  had  also  read  much 
of  the  best  English  prose  and  verse. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  returned;  "but  this  is  so  dif 
ferent,  George.  What  am  I  to  read  to  a  dying  man  ? 
I  went  there  once.  It  was  horrible— so  slovenly  and 
dirty  and  ill-smelling;  and  I  never  before  saw  a 
man  dying.  It  was  dreadful.  It  seemed  to  me  so 
unnatural." 

The  thought  struck  him  as  singular.  "That  is," 
he  returned,  "only  because  in  the  ordinary  ways 
of  life  to  see  a  death  is  rare  for  most  people.  I 
have  seen  thousands  die.  To  me,  for  four  years, 
death  was  ever  near,  a  sadly  common  event.  It  is 
what  may  precede  death  that  I  dread,— long  ill 
ness,  the  loss  of  competence,— but  not  death.  I  hope 
that,  when  I  die,  my  twilight  may  be  brief. ' ' 


112  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"Please  don't,"  she  said.  "But  what  am  I  to 
read?" 

"Well,  then,  to  settle  your  mind,  dear,  read  him 
the  fourteenth  chapter  of  John,  and  take  my  little 
Bible  with  you.  I  doubt  if  there  be  a  Bible  in  the 
whole  settlement." 

"Thank  you,  George." 

"Shall  I  go  with  you?  I  should  be  very  glad 
to  go." 

"Oh,  no,  no."  She  felt  that  this  would  have 
embarrassed  her. 

"Remember,  the  fourteenth  of  John.  It  is  very 
beautiful.  Have  you  never  read  it  ? " 

"Never." 

The  reply  shocked  him.  In  spite  of  what  he  knew 
of  her  life,  it  also  surprised  him.  For  the  moment 
he  had  been  puzzled  by  her  question;  but  the  chap 
ter  he  named  was  a  favorite  of  his  own,  and  he 
would,  after  all,  have  been  unable  to  name  any  other 
more  suitable. 

In  the  afternoon  she  found  Coffin  waiting  at  the 
foot  of  the  bluff.  He  walked  with  her  past  the  busy 
cotton-presses,  and  then  out  of  the  wood  on  to  the 
cleared  lands  with  their  broken  fences  and  half- 
burned  stumps.  ' '  Wait  for  me  here, ' '  she  said,  and 
went  on  to  Wilson's  log  cabin.  The  woman  and  her 
children  were  absent.  By  the  dim  light  within  she 
saw,  as  she  paused  at  the  door,  the  broken  chairs, 
the  open  press  with  soiled  gowns,  and  the  lean 
chickens  picking  up  the  crumbs  lying  about  the 
dirty  floor.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  odors  of 
uncared-for  illness.  As  she  approached  the  rude 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  113 

bed,  Wilson  said,  trying  to  sit  up,  ' '  There  's  a  chair, 
ma'am.  Set  down.  Not  that  one;  it  's  broke." 

She  took  the  hot,  dry  hand,  and  feeling  a  keen 
desire  to  run  away,  sat  down  beside  him,  saying, 
as  she  put  her  basket  on  the  table,  "I  brought  you 
some  soup.  I  hope  you  are  better." 

' '  No,  ma  'am ;  and  I  never  will  be  no  better.  The 
doctor  you  sent  told  my  wife  I  could  n't  hold  out 
long.  She  's  awful  troubled  about  the  funeral.  We 
talked  it  over,  and  I  reckon  it  won't  cost  much.  I 
told  her  so.  Tom  will  make  the  coffin." 

She  was  seeing  a  new  aspect  of  life— the  crude 
business  of  death  among  the  poor.  It  shocked  a 
woman  who,  in  her  abounding  health  and  immense 
vitality,  had  little  more  realization  of  decay  and 
death  than  has  the  normal  animal. 

She  murmured  softly,  "Do  not  worry;  we  will 
take  care  of  all  that." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said;  "that  's  mighty  good 
of  you.  I  can't  talk  long;  it  makes  me  cough." 
Then,  after  a  brief  pause,  he  said :  "  I  've  been  think 
ing  a  heap  about  things.  I  ain't  been  a  bad  man, 
but  I  killed  a  man  in  Tennessee.  You  see,  he  shot 
Brother  Bill  a  week  before.  Seems  to  me  it  was— 
yes,  it  was  Christmas  eve,  and  snowing.  I  got  him 
comin'  out  of  his  barn.  Now  I  want  to  know.  My 
wife  fetched  a  preacher  here.  He  's  a  Methody. 
He  said  I  'd  got  to  repent  of  that  man,  or  I  'd  go  to 
hell.  I  did  n't  want  him  any  more.  I  don't  repent. 
If  a  man  was  to  kill  your  man,  you  would  n  't  forgive 
him,  now  would  you?" 

"I  would  not,"  she  replied. 

8 


114  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"I  knowed  you  would  say  something  like  that, 
and  it  's  a  real  comfort.  The  other  notion  ain't 
natural. ' ' 

The  woman  sat  still  in  thought,  while  he  coughed 
until  he  was  exhausted.  What  would  George  have 
said?  Why  did  men  confess  to  her?  She  had  been 
reinforcing  a  dying  man's  undying  hatred.  And 
yet,  how  could  she  lie  ? 

At  last  he  whispered  hoarsely :  ' l  Sometimes  in  the 
night  I  ain't  easy  about  it.  It  's  a  kind  of  muddle, 
life  is.  You  don't  ever  get  things  cleared  up.  Did 
you  fetch  the  Book?  I  used  to  like  mother  to  read 
the  stories  in  it  when  I  was  a  little  chap.  When 
father  was  dying  she  read  out  of  it,  and  now  I  'm 
going  too.  Would  you  read  some?" 

She  opened  the  Bible  where  Trescot  had  left  a 
marker,  and  read  in  tones  which  gathered  pathetic 
sweetness  as  she  went  on  near  to  the  end  of  the  chap 
ter,  when  he  stopped  her.  ' '  Seems  to  me  I  remember 
that, ' '  he  said ;  ' '  must  have  heard  it  once  in  church 
up  in  the  hills.  What  's  that  about  the  Holy  Ghost  ? 
That  's  what  bothered  me  when  I  was  a  young  fellow. 
I  took  religion  bad,  once;  but  that  about  the  Holy 
Ghost  used  to  kind  of  scare  me  of  nights.  What 
does  that  mean?" 

Constance  paused,  searching  the  page  for  an  an 
swer.  It  was  a  childlike  creature  who  lay  gasping 
under  the  soiled  sheet,  and  yet  it  was  a  man;  and 
she  felt  that  out  of  her  larger  life  she  owed  him  an 
answer.  But  what  to  say  she  knew  not. 

For  a  moment  she  sat  still,  glad  that  he  was  un 
able  to  recognize  her  embarrassment.  Then,  her  eye 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  115 

wandering  over  the  page,  she  said:  " Perhaps  this 
may  help  you.  'The  Holy  Ghost,  the  Comforter.'  " 

" There  can't  be  no  comfort  in  what  a  man  can't 
understand.  I  don't  know  as  that—" 

A  cruel  spell  of  coughing  stopped  him;  and  the 
agony  of  vain  effort  shook  the  rickety  bed  until  it 
creaked  sharply.  For  some  reason,  this  strangely 
affected  her.  It  seemed  an  inanimate  expression  of 
the  extent  of  discomfort  and  wretchedness.  At 
last,  worn  out,  he  groaned,  "My  God,  that  's  aw 
ful!"  as  he  wiped  away  the  blood  on  his  lips  and 
the  gray  tangle  of  his  beard;  and  then,  with  recur 
rent  reflection:  "But  there  's  a  heap  of  things  a 
man  can't  understand." 

She  shared  his  conviction  as  she  sat  with  her 
glove  on  the  open  page,  penciled  here  and  there 
by  a  hand  she  loved.  She  murmured,  "Yes,  yes," 
and  read  on.  "  'Peace  I  leave  with  you;  my  peace  I 
give  unto  you:  not  as  the  world  giveth,  give  I  unto 
you.'" 

"Won't  you  say  that  again?"  he  murmured  fee 
bly. 

The  clear  tones  of  a  voice  often  spoken  of  for  its 
charm  repeated  the  promise.  She  was  close  to  tears 
as  she  continued: 

"  'Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled,  neither  let 
it  be  afraid.'  " 

She  was  emotionally  too  much  disturbed  to  go  on, 
and  made  a  brief  pause  to  regain  her  command  of 
speech,  relieved  by  the  strange  comments  which  gave 
her  time. 

"That  about  being  afraid,  now,  that  's  curious- 


116  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

like.     I  've  been  troubled  pretty  often,  but  I  don't 
know  as  I  ever  was  afraid." 

She  made  no  reply,  but  read  on,  as  one  may  do 
automatically,  with  one  half-conscious  mind  on  the 
text,  and  with  one  other  mind  perplexed  by  thoughts 
of  death  and  life— the  sudden  sense  of  the  sweet 
values  of  mystery  in  love  and  friendship  and  re 
ligion,  of  which  George  had  spoken.  She  read  on 
to  the  end,  not  taking  in  the  meaning  of  the  three 
verses  which  followed. 

"Is  that  all,  ma'am?  " 

"Yes;  that  is  all." 

"Thank  you."  He  lay  on  his  back,  silent,  the 
sweat  on  his  forehead,  his  cheeks  red,  his  eyes  closed. 
What  were  his  thoughts  ?  There  on  the  edge  of  the 
grave  was  this  rude,  half -civilized  man  of  the  woods, 
without  education,  with  his  creed  of  an  eye  for  an 
eye,  and  here  the  woman  of  another  world,  with 
every  gift  and  every  chance  that  wealth  had  given, 
and  both  alike  bewildered  over  the  simple  words  of 
a  promise  which  neither  could  comprehend  nor  yet 
know  how  to  use. 

The  flies  buzzed  in  and  out  and  settled  on  the 
hot  face  undisturbed,  until  she  began  to  fan  them 
away. 

"I  was  n't  asleep,"  he  said  feebly,  opening  his 
eyes:  "I  was  a-thinking."  So,  too,  was  she. 

"I  was  thinking,"  he  repeated,  "that  maybe  you 
would  n't  mind  saying  a  prayer.  You  won't  need 
to  kneel  down,  the  floor  's  that  filthy ;  it  's  them 
chickens,  and  my  wife  's  wore  out." 

The  voice  was  very  earnest  in  its  appeal, 
might  get  some  help." 


CONSTANCE  TKESCOT  117 

Constance  sat  up,  in  her  perplexity  fanning  him 
more  rapidly.  She  was  helpless,  stranded,  full  of 
pity.  Was  this  a  time  for  deceit?  To  whom  could 
she  pray  ?  She  felt  for  the  man  in  his  hour  of  doubt 
and  pain,  putting  forth  yearning  hands  for  a  sure 
hold  on  something.  Would  such  an  hour  ever  come 
to  her? 

He  felt  vaguely  her  hesitation,  and  with  the  gen 
tleness  of  the  mountain-man  said :  " Maybe  you  ain't 
used  to  praying  in  company." 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  glad  of  the  frailest  pretense; 
"I  am  not;  and  the  room  is  close,  I  must  get 
outside."  It  was  true.  She  had  the  keenest  sen 
sitiveness  to  evil  odors.  Her  head  swam,  and  say 
ing,  "I  wiH  come  again;  I  must  get  into  the  air," 
she  stood  up  and  emptied  her  basket  of  fruit,  lemons, 
and  the  bottle  of  soup.  "You  must  need  ice.  I  will 
send  it  to-morrow— no,  to-night.  Coffin  will  bring 
it." 

He  thanked  her,  and  again  she  had  to  touch  the 
hot,  dry  hand,  as  he  pleaded:  "This  is  n't  any  kind 
of  place  for  folks  like  you,  ma'am;  but  the  angels 
might  be  like  you— I  don't  ask  no  better.  You  will 
come  again,  won't  you?" 

"I  will;  certainly  I  will,"  she  said,  and  went  out. 

"A  sad  kind  of  angel  you  are,  Constance  Tres- 
cot,"  she  murmured,  as  she  drank  in  the  fresh 
pine-scented  air.  She  had  a  pained  sense  of  incom 
pleteness,  of  incompetence,  of  failure. 

Her  uncle's  views,  which  were  nourished  by  the 
pleasure  of  being  in  opposition  to  his  own  world, 
had  kept  her  ignorant  of  all  that  Susan  knew  so 
well.  Constance  had  felt  no  need  of  it  for  herself 


118  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

or  for  others.  With  all  her  many  resources,  her  edu 
cation,  her  acceptance  by  a  man  like  Trescot  on 
terms  of  intellectual  equality,  she  had  shrunk  away 
defeated,  unable  to  answer  helpfully  a  simple,  un 
educated  woodsman.  She  moved  on  into  the  forest, 
deep  in  thought,  followed  by  her  doglike  guardian. 
Presently,  as  she  went  past  the  cotton-presses,  she 
was  aware  of  coming  steps  and  met  Mr.  Greyhurst. 
He  turned  and  went  with  her.  Seeing  whence  she 
had  come,  he  said,  with  some  seriousness:  "These 
clearings  are  rather  lonesome  places  for  ladies,  Mrs. 
Trescot;  and,  now  that  the  blacks  are  free,  not  al 
together  safe.  You  must  pardon  my  frankness.  Mr. 
Trescot  may  not  fully  comprehend  the  risks  the 
North  has  brought  on  us." 

It  was  said  kindly,  and  as  she  felt  he  was  not 
without  reason,  she  replied:  "You  are  no  doubt 
right ;  but  when  I  come  here  among  these  poor  people 
I  ask  my  garden  helper,  Coffin,  to  follow  me. '  * 

"So  I  see,  but  he  is  a  wild  fellow,  like  the  rest,— 
oh,  I  suppose,  trustworthy  in  a  way.  I  should  think 
you  would  find  these  people  interesting.  They  are 
mostly  men  who  have  drifted  down  from  the  moun 
tain  country." 

"Yes,  I  like  them.  This  time  I  went  to  take  a 
sick  man  some  luxuries." 

"You  are  very  good.  These  people— and,  in  fact, 
most  of  our  people— are  too  poor  to  be  able  to  help 
one  another. p 

"Oh,  these  are  trifles  any  one  can  afford." 

"Perhaps.  I  called  on  you  again  yesterday,  but 
was  unlucky.  Will  you  allow  me  to  say  one  thing?" 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  119 

She  laughed.  "Being  ignorant,  I  must,  I  sup 
pose,  be  generous.  What  is  it?" 

He  went  on,  with  a  manner  so  timid  and  unas 
sured  as  to  be  in  marked  contrast  with  his  athletic 
build  and  ordinary  self-assertive  carriage. 

"We  have  been  so  long  accustomed  to  regard 
Mr.  Hood  as  a  sort  of  despotic  landlord,  stand 
ing  in  our  way  here  in  St.  Ann,  that  your  appear 
ance  as  representing  him  rather  startled  our  good 
ladies." 

"I  trust  they  were  agreeably  startled.  Are  we 
so  surprising?" 

i  l  Oh,  I  said  you,  Mrs.  Trescot ;  men  are  never  sur 
prising.  ' ' 

"Indeed!  I  have  often  found  them  so.  I  think, 
however,  when  my  uncle  comes  in  the  fall  for  that 
tiresome  trial,  you  will  find  one  man  who  will  pass 
as  agreeably  surprising.  I  want  him  to  come  be 
cause  we  wish  him  to  know  St.  Ann  and  all  these 
delightful  people.  Besides,  he  is  a  great  friend  of 
the  South — what  at  home  we  called  a  Copperhead. 
He  could  do  a  great  deal  to  help  this  town;  and, 
once  here  on  the  spot,  he  may  be  brought  to  see 
that  even  in  business  it  is  often  the  best  policy  to 
be  generous." 

"You  will  pardon  me,  Mrs.  Trescot,  if  I  say  that 
he  has  hardly  been  that,  or  even  just." 

"Perhaps  not;  but  we  trust  that  in  the  end  St. 
Ann  will  not  have  to  regret  our  coming  or  our  in 
fluence  with  him.  In  business  my  uncle  loves  to  be 
what  he  calls  exact;  outside  of  it  he  is  the  prey  of 
everybody  who  wants  help." 


120  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"That  is  unusual,"  he  returned;  "but,  unfortu 
nately,  this  is  all  business." 

"Yes;  but,  after  all,  Mr.  Greyhurst,  it  is  hard  for 
a  man  to  escape  from  the  tyranny  of  his  own  tem 
perament.  My  uncle  is  always  in  the  opposition, 
and  for  that  reason  I  think  he  really  enjoys  a  legal 
battle." 

"  It  is  often  a  costly  luxury. ' ' 

"Yes;  but  he  does  not  care  about  that." 

"What  you  say  about  the  difficulty  of  escape  from 
the  despotism  of  temperament— ah!  that  is  sadly 
true.  No  one  knows  that  better  than  I.  I  envy  Mr. 
Trescot  his  entire  self-control.  I  think  the  bar  is 
scarcely  a  good  education  in  amiability." 

"If,"  she  laughed,  "my  husband  degenerates  in 
St.  Ann  I  shall  run  away.  I  think  General  Averill 
is  a  poor  illustration  of  the  influence  of  the  practice 
of  the  law." 

' '  Oh,  the  general !  No  one  is  like  Averill.  He 
has  the  tenderness  of  a  woman.  He  is  impossible 
as  an  example." 

"Cannot  a  man  make  himself  what  he  really  wants 
to  be?" 

He  glanced  at  her  with  interest,  and  returned 
gaily,  "Can  a  woman?" 

"No,"  she  said;  "no." 

"Neither  can  I,  Mrs.  Trescot,  more  's  the 
pity." 

He  was  once  more  on  the  point  of  one  of  those 
easy  confessions,  which,  for  some  occult  reason  of 
sex  sympathies,  men,  as  I  have  said,  are  so  apt  to 
confide  to  the  charity  of  women.  Young  as  she  was, 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  121 

she  was  prepared  for  it,  and  not  liking  the  too  per 
sonal  turn  the  talk  had  taken,  she  said : 

"You  have  told  me  what  folks  think  of  us  in  St. 
Ann,  but  you  have  never  asked— no  one  has— what 
we  think  of  St.  Ann." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "that  might  be  worth  while." 

"We  like  it  and  the  people." 

She  was  scarcely  accurate,  to  state  it  in  no  worse 
way. 

' '  That  is  pleasant ;  I  accept  my  share. ' ' 

"I  must  leave  the  partition  to  you,"  she  said 
lightly.  "What  a  big  river-steamer!" 

"Yes;  the  Stonewall  Jackson,  a  new  boat." 

"How  warm  it  is!"  She  raised  her  parasol  as 
they  came  out  on  the  bluff.  "Is  it  always  as  warm 
as  this  in  your  July  weather  ? ' ' 

They  went  on  talking  of  every-day  matters.  In 
the  main  street  she  said:  "I  must  leave  you  here; 
I  have  to  make  a  call  and  do  some  shopping." 

He  took  it  to  be  a  dismissal,  and,  raising  his  hat, 
left  her. 

He  walked  on,  absorbed  in  thought.  The  woman 
had  a  calming  influence  upon  his  uncertain  temper. 
Most  women  so  affected  him.  With  men  his  self- 
esteem  was  always  on  the  watch  for  slights.  It  made 
his  associates  uncomfortably  careful.  He  was  at 
times  aware  of  their  reserve,  and,  without  fully  un 
derstanding  the  cause,  resented  it.  He  felt  it  in 
his  business,  and  most  of  all  with  Trescot,  who,  al 
though  very  desirous  of  keeping  on  good  terms  with 
him,  found  it  increasingly  difficult.  That  morning, 
in  Averill's  office,  Greyhurst  had  returned  to  the 


122  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

question  of  an  amicable  settlement  of  Hood's  claim 
to  own  the  water-front  at  the  bend.  Trescot  had 
once  more  made  the  reply  that  it  lay  with  Mr.  Hood, 
and  that  he  had  himself  failed  to  move  him.  Grey- 
hurst  had  lost  his  temper  and  made  his  disbelief 
so  plain  that  nothing  except  Averill's  very  positive 
interference  and  indorsement  of  Trescot 's  statement 
had  saved  an  open  quarrel.  Greyhurst  had  reluc 
tantly  apologized,  and  Trescot  had  been  exasperat- 
ingly  good-humored. 

As  Greyhurst  walked  on  he  said,  with  returning 
remembrance  of  his  annoyance :  ' '  Damn  the  man ! 
I  was  a  fool  to  talk  of  it,— a  child,— but  his  cold 
blooded  ways  are  hard  to  stand. "  As  he  murmured 
his  condemnation  of  Trescot,  a  big  black  fellow, 
much  in  liquor,  hustled  him.  He  struck  him  sav 
agely  and  went  on.  The  man  gathered  himself  up, 
and  following  him,  said  meekly:  "I  did  n't  go  to  do 
it,  massa." 

"Oh,  go  to  the  devil!"  exclaimed  Greyhurst. 
"Get  out,  or  you  '11  get  a  bullet  through  you!" 

He  had  made  himself  angry  about  one  man,  and 
another  had  suffered.  A  minute  later  he  was  sorry 
for  his  brutal  haste.  His  life  was  full  of  such  re 
grets  ;  but  this  was  a  minor  one,  and  did  not  trouble 
him  long. 


|Y  and  by,  her  errands  done,  Constance 
called  at  her  husband's  office,  and  they 
walked  homeward  together. 

He  told  her  that  he  had  heard  from 
her  uncle.  He  had  once  more  declined 
to  yield  assent  to  any  of  Trescot's  proposals.  The 
squatters  must  go. 

Constance  laughed.  "Wait  till  I  have  him  here. 
I  know  a  way." 

"Upon  my  word,  dear,  I  begin  to  respect  your 
legal  resources;  but  they  are,  so  far,  rather  costly. 
You  have  provided  for  Coffin.  '  How  much  it  will 
require  to  get  the  rest  to  leave  we  do  not  know. 
As  for  the  use  of  the  machinery  of  the  law  to  turn 
them  out  to  shift  for  themselves— I  will  throw  up 
the  whole  business  rather  than  do  that." 

"Indeed,  I  should,  George,  if  it  came  to  that; 
but  it  will  not;  there  will  be  no  occasion." 

"Well,  I  trust  not.  I  have  had  a  long  talk  with 
Greyhurst  this  morning  in  AvernTs  office.  I  never 
knew  so  peculiar  a  man.  He  told  me  that  he,  at 
least,  had  had  no  hand  in  that  club  business.  When 
I  thanked  him  and  said  that  I  had  never  for  a  mo 
ment  supposed  the  Confederate  officers  had  been  in 
it,  he  said  some  of  them  had,  and  would  have  told 
me  who  they  were  if  I  had  not  said  I  did  not  wish 

123 


124  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

to  know  their  names.  He  laughed,  and  remarked 
that  it  was  as  well  not  to  know,  because  I  might  feel 
obliged  to  call  them  to  account.  I  said  in  reply  that 
I  had  no  malice  about  the  blackballing,  and  that  in 
a  case  of  even  graver  injury  I  should  not  feel  justi 
fied  in  avenging  myself  by  shooting  a  man,  and  that 
a  bullet  in  the  shoulder  was,  in  my  case,  a  pretty 
positive  peacemaker. 

"As  he  made  no  reply,  I  went  on  to  say  that  I 
had  never  desired  to  be  a  member  of  the  club,  and 
was  therefore  quite  easy  in  mind.  When  Averill 
asked  him  at  what  time  in  October  he  thought  our 
case  would  come  up,  he  said  he  did  not  know,  and 
that  it  never  ought  to  come  up  at  all;  and  when  I 
said  that  was  my  desire,  but  that  it  would  have  to 
go  to  trial,  he  quite  suddenly  lost  his  temper,  and 
said  that  I  ought  to  be  able  to  bring  about  a  set 
tlement.  And  then  there  was  more  of  it,  and 
worse. ' ' 

"What  did  you  say,  George?" 

"Oh,  Averill  interfered,  and  I  said  I  should  do 
everything  possible ;  and  indeed  ,1  shall.  He  went 
away  in  a  curious  sullen  humor,  and,  upon  my  word, 
he  is  like  some  rude,  undisciplined  boy ;  but  I  think 
he  has  brains  enough  to  know  that  he  has  a  bad  case. 
If  he  knew  all  I  know,  he  would  give  it  up,  although 
that  is  not  Averill's  opinion." 

"I  met  him  in  the  woods  as  I  came  from  Wilson's. 
He  was  pretty  sharply  critical  of  Uncle  Rufus,  and 
was  rather  intimate  in  his  talk  about  himself." 

"Was  he?  I  should  not  have  thought  him  a  man 
to  do  that." 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  125 

"It  surprised  me  less  than  it  does  you,  for  men 
have  a  queer  way  of  opening  their  minds  to  women. ' ' 

"I  am  sure  you  said  what  was  right.  How  is 
poor  Wilson?" 

"I  was  wrong  to  go,  George." 

Kealizing  what  must  have  happened,  and  not  al 
together  sorry,  he  said:  "What  was  your  trouble, 
my  love?  Did  you  read  to  him?" 

"Yes;  I  read  to  him,  and  oh,  George,  he  asked 
me  questions." 

"What,  dear?" 

She  hesitated,  and  then  said:  "It  was  dreadful. 
He  asked  me  what  was  the  Holy  Ghost,  what  kind 
of  a  Ghost.  It  was  awful.  How  did  I  know  ?  How 
does  any  one  know?  Your  Bible  is  a  tangle  of 
mysteries. ' ' 

"It  is  answered  in  the  same  chapter,  Constance." 

"Answered?" 

"Yes;  it  is  the  Comforter." 

"I  said  that." 

"It  is  also  called  the  Spirit  of  Truth,  Constance. 
That  which  is  as  old  as  the  world,  as  old  as  He  who 
made  it,  the  Spirit  before  which  science  bends  in 
worship,  that  on  which  the  world  of  morals  rests. 
Is  n't  that  simple  enough?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  doubtfully. 

"Was  that  all,  dear?" 

"Oh,  no,  no;  he  asked  me  to  pray  for  him." 

He  looked  at  her.  She  was  troubled,  tearful;  he 
hardly  knew  what  to  say,  and  at  last  wisely  put  the 
question  by.  "We  will  talk  of  that  at  another  time, 
not  now;  it  is  a  large  question." 


126  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"I  did  not  do  it." 

"  No ;  you  were  right. ' ' 

"Thank  you,  George." 

To  know  that,  thinking,  believing  as  he  did,  he 
was  able  to  put  himself  in  her  position  affected  her 
deeply.  She  was  about  to  go  on  and  say  something 
of  the  man's  confession  and  his  creed  of  unforgive- 
ness,  but  recalling  what  she  too  had  said  in  reply, 
she  was  silent. 

The  next  week  she  went  away  to  her  old  home 
with  the  general  and  Mrs.  Averill.  The  day  after 
her  arrival  she  wrote  to  Trescot : 

"DEAR  GEORGE: 

"I  am  sitting  on  the  great  rock  at  sunset,  and 
it  seems  as  though  the  waves  I  love  are  glad  of  my 
coming.  A  mad  gale  is  hurling  them  on  the  rocks 
below  me,  and  far  away  there  is  a  wild  turmoil  of 
waters  about  Little  Misery  Islands.  The  air  is 
sweet  and  salt,  and  it  wants  only  the  sunshine  of  the 
love  I  miss  every  hour. 

"I  found  Susan  well  and  utterly  unchanged. 
Why  should  she  not  be?— only  that  I  have  changed, 
and  am  wiser  and  a  larger  person  than  when  you 
first  knew  me.  What  your  dear  love  and  company 
have  done  for  me  I  know  full  well.  The  atmo 
sphere  of  my  old  home  seems  to  me  other  than  it 
was.  I  think  I  shall  understand  Susan  better. 
Once  I  used  to  think  her  narrow.  Uncle  Rufus  is 
thinner  than  thin,  with  a  wilted  autumnal  look,  and 
the  same  delicate  features,  and  the  same  meek  vio 
lence  in  his  opinions.  I  refused  to  be  taken  in  the 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  127 

toils  of  an  invitation  to  discuss  his  Western  affairs, 
but  it  will  have  to  be  soon  or  late,  though  I  shall 
not  be  serious  with  him  until  we  are  in  St.  Ann. 
Then  he  may  look  out.  And  now  I  must  go.  I 
hear  voices  in  the  garden. 

11  Constantly  your  constant 

''CONSTANCE. 

"Is  n't  that  pretty,  sir? 

"P.  S.— Tell  me  all  the  news,  big  and  little.  How 
are  Wilson  and  Coffin  and  my  cat?  The  Averills 
were  most  kind,  and  will  be  here  very  soon  for  a 
visit. 

"P.  S.— I  am  writing  a  second  P.  S.,— almost  in 
the  dark.  Far  away  to  right,  Marblehead  Light  is 
flashing  at  intervals  over  the  stormy  water.  There 
is  another,  a  lesser  one,  far  to  the  left.  I  like  it  bet 
ter.  It  is,  sir,  if  you  please,  constant,  like  me." 

She  wrote  daily,  and  a  week  later  said: 

"I  can  see  that  dear,  grave  face  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  went  to  church  last  Sunday  with  Susan.  I 
am  not  going  to  pretend  I  went  for  any  reason  ex 
cept  because  I  love  you,  but  that  is  not  reason,  for 
my  love  is  all  of  me— body,  soul,  and  mind.  Is  that 
a  riddle,  sir?  I  had  to  tell  Susan  that  I  went  because 
it  would  please  you.  She  put  on  one  of  her  queer 
looks,  and  said  it  was  creditable  to  my  sense  of 
the  humorous.  I  did  not  like  that.  I  do  not  think 
that  even  you  can  understand  the  absolute  negation 
from  childhood  of  all  thought  about  this  vast  mat 
ter  of  religion.  Since  I  came,  a  little  girl,  to  East- 


128  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

wood,  I  have  been  imprisoned  within  the  bounds 
of  my  uncle's  belief,  or  unbelief,  and  only  of  late 
years  did  I  slowly  apprehend  that  his  attitude  was 
purely  due  to  the  joy  of  standing  up  against  other 
people's  beliefs.  But  think,  dear,  what  this  igno 
rance,  ridicule,  and  denial  did  with  a  childhood  like 
mine.  Susan  said  once  you  cannot  even  teach  man 
ners  without  forms,  nor  make  a  child  religious  and 
reverent  without  forms.  Is  that  so?  I  had  a 
wicked  little  joy  when  uncle  saw  me  go  out  to  church 
with  Susan.  He  said,  as  if  it  were  a  tragedy,  'And 
this  is  the  end,'  and,  as  Susan  says,  twinkled  away. 
He  does  not  walk  like  other  people,  but  only  from 
his  knees— really  an  absurd  little  person,  as  he  ap 
pears  to  me  now,  with  a  queer  way  of  suddenly 
saying  unexpected  things.  He  told  me  once,  when 
I  was  fifteen,  that  I  was  a  fine  animal.  I  was 
furious,  but  I  think  I  know  now  what  he  meant. 

''The  Averills  came  and  were  made  much  of. 
Since  the  general  was  here  uncle  has  spoken  of 
you  to  our  friends  with  a  newly  acquired  pride,  to 
the  vast  amusement  of  Susan.  You  are  to  under 
stand  that  when,  in  October,  you  have  the  help  of  a 
man  with  some  knowledge  of  business  everything 
will  be  settled.  I  said,  'Better,  then,  uncle,  not  to 
discuss  things  with  an  ignorant  woman';  and  with 
this  he  was  contented  for  half  a  day. 

''Whenever  it  is  possible  I  go  out  in  our  cat-boat, 
and  oh,  to  sail  with  a  mad  east  wind  driving  the 
fog  in  your  face!  Do  you  like  that?  Nature  is 
never  too  riotous  for  me— and  then  these  summer 
evenings  by  the  sea;  what  a  blithe  playmate!  I 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  129 

used  to  like  best  to  be  alone  on  the  shore  or  in  the 
woods ;  but  now,  ah !  to  have  you,  and  cry,  '  Look  at 
this,  George;  and  see  that/ 

"You  say  I  am  making  you  vain.  I  leave  you  to 
imagine  how  much  I  love  you,  how  emptied  is  life 
without  you.  My  uncle  concerns  himself  with  every 
thing,  from  the  dairy  and  the  butter  to  my  poor 
little  every-day  letters  to  you.  'Absurd  waste  of 
paper,'  he  says;  and  then,  with  his  inconsequent 
felicity,  'What  would  I  do  if  you  were  dead?'  I 
said:  'Do?  I  should  kill  myself  in  the  hope  to  find 
you— oh,  somewhere !'  Do  you  know,  he  laughed,  and 
said:  'Just  so,  just  so.  I  do  not  doubt  it.'  Then  he 
went  on:  'Once  you  had  a  doll  and  it  fell  into  the 
well.  You  were  caught  trying  to  climb  down  the 
chain  to  get  it ;  and  then,  when  you  were  punished, 
you  said  you  would  starve  until  some  one  got  that 
doll.'  It  was  true.  At  last  I  scared  him  so  that  a 
man  went  down  and  got  it.  There  was  not  much 
doll  left,  but  it  was  my  doll.  He  went  on,  and  I 
learned  more  about  my  obstinate  ways,  until  I  fled 
away,  leaving  him  talking,  until,  as  I  presume,  he 
discovered  that  he  was  alone. 

"Yesterday  we  had  a  dense  fog.  It  rolled  in 
from  the  sea  in  gray  masses.  An  east  wind  drove 
it  landward.  I  went  to  the  shore  and  lay  on  the 
rocks  just  above  the  sea.  The  fog  shut  out  the 
islands,  and  at  last  was  like  a  gray  wall  about  me. 
You  know  how  the  sea  of  a  bright  day  seems  to 
explain  itself,  when  from  far  away  the  waves  rise 
and  gather  and  grow  and  break  on  the  shore;  but 
now  you  could  not  see  twenty  feet,  and  the  great 


130  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

rollers  came  as  if  out  of  nowhere  and  tumbled  at 
my  feet.  Somewhere  out  at  sea  a  steamer  screamed 
as  if  lost.  Oh,  but  I  wanted  you !  You  would  have 
said  things  of  it  all  I  cannot  say.  I  can  only  see 
and  enjoy  and  badly  describe. 

"C.  T." 


A  few  days  before  she  returned  to  St.  Ann  one 
of  his  replies  to  her  daily  letters  ran  thus : 

"Yes,  the  rooms  will  be  in  order  for  your  uncle 
and  our  welcome  Susan.  Mrs.  Averill  has  been 
sending  me  a  lot  of  things— I  presume  owing  to 
your  distrust  of  my  capacity  to  keep  house.  I  have 
at  least  laid  in  a  stock  of  patience  for  use  when 
your  uncle  comes,  and  have  got  out  and  dusted  my 
other  unused  virtues.  I  received  last  week  a  kind 
note  from  Colonel  La  Grange,  with  a  check  for  my 
settlement  of  the  damaged  cotton.  You  may  guess 
how  much— enough  to  make  it  easier  to  deal  with 
your  uncle. 

' '  You  ask  in  your  last  whom  I  see,  and  would  like 
to  know  what  I  do  all  day.  You  ask  if  I  have  made 
any  new  friends.  I  scent  the  wicked  weed  jealousy 
in  the  garden  of  love.  Fie  for  shame!  More  peo 
ple  have  been  able  this  year  to  get  away.  I  see  no 
women  except  Mrs.  Averill,  and  if  you  are  jealous 
of  any  woman  it  must  be  of  Rosalind  or  Portia  or 
Lady  Macbeth.  I  have  been  refreshing  myself  with 
the  company  of  these  ladies  in  your  absence.  Horses 
are  so  plenty  that  I  have  been  able  to  ride  a  few 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  131 

times  with  La  Grange,  and  I  begin  to  think  of  the 
joy  of  some  day  riding  with  you. 

' '  Poor  Wilson  is  dead ;  and,  as  you  desired,  I  took 
care  of  the  funeral.  The  rest  may  keep.  Every 
thing  goes  well,  and  there  are  still  flowers,— oh,  in 
abundance !  I  hear  that  the  rector  is  not  well  and 
has  given  up.  A  young  man  named  Kent  has  taken 
his  place.  I  had  some  distant  relatives  named  Kent. 
I  never  saw  them.  You  may  tell  Susan  that  La 
Grange,  who  knows  Mr.  Kent,  says  he  is  young  and 
very  good-looking.  That  is  all  my  news.  Do  take 
care  of  yourself." 

"Poor  Susan!"  thought  Constance;  "I  think  she 
prefers  them  old.  I  imagine  Susan  in  a  mild  clerical 
flirtation!" 


XI 


N  the  evening  of  the  first  of  October, 
Constance  found  herself,  to  her  great 
joy,  again  in  her  own  home.  They  ar 
rived  late,  and  Mr.  Hood  very  tired. 
He  appeared,  however,  at  breakfast 
next  morning,  having  slept  unusually  well.  After 
an  ample  meal,  during  which  he  found  time  to  com 
plain  of  the  butter,  the  eggs,  the  corn-bread,  and 
his  cocoa,  he  informed  Susan  that  she  had  better 
take  a  rest,  and  that  Constance,  at  eleven  o'clock, 
would  go  with  him  to  show  him  the  way  to  Mr. 
Greyhurst's  office  and  to  the  general's.  At  five  in 
the  afternoon  George  would  drive  him  about  the 
country.  He  desired  to  see  his  lands.  In  the  even 
ing  he  would  be  prepared  to  discuss  matters  with 
Trescot. 

The  family,  thus  disposed  of,  rose  in  revolt. 
Trescot  had  affairs  which  would  keep  him  busy; 
there  would  be  a  buggy  and  Coffin  to  drive  Mr.  Hood 
about.  It  was  too  far  for  him  to  walk,  and  Con 
stance  would  be  occupied.  Susan  declined  to  be  ad 
vised.  She  had  to  unpack.  He  gave  up  at  once. 

Trescot  said :  "  It  would  be  as  well  not  to  call  on 
Mr.  Greyhurst.  But  if  you  do,  may  I  ask  that  you 

132 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  133 

will  not  commit  yourself  in  any  way  until  the  gen 
eral  and  I  have  been  able  to  lay  before  you  more 
fully  what  has  been  done. ' ' 

"Of  course  not,  Trescot;  I  have  not  been  a  busi 
ness  man  all  my  life  without  having  learned  cau 
tion."  He  had  a  brisk  little  air  of  assurance.  "I 
hope  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  some  of  the  Con 
federate  officers.  I  think  you  said  Mr.  Greyhurst 
was  one  of  them.  With  my  views  of  the  late  dis 
astrous  war,  everything  will  become  easy." 

"I  trust,  sir,"  said  Trescot,  as  he  was  about  to 
go  out,  "that  you  may  enable  me,  now  that  you  are 
here,  to  act  as  I  have  not  been  as  yet  authorized 
to  do.  Unless  you  can  make  up  your  mind  to  yield 
a  little,  you  will  find  difficulties,  as  we  have  done." 

Mr.  Hood  waved  them  away.  "Difficulties  are 
not  for  the  resolute." 

Constance  shook  her  head  at  her  husband,  who, 
thus  advised,  quietly  gave  up ;  and  the  little  old 
man  went  out  on  the  porch  to  get  his  morning  ex 
ercise.  He  walked  up  and  down,  with  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  smiling  at  intervals,  and  contem 
plating  with  satisfaction  novel  opportunities  for 
the  exercise  of  his  adroitness  in  affairs.  Mean 
while,  Susan  also  disappeared. 

As  Constance  left  him  at  the  door,  Trescot  said: 
"There  are  limitless  capacities  for  mischief  in  that 
old  man." 

"There  are;  but  he  is  as  timid  as  a  house-fly. 
The  general  has  already  disposed  him  to  yield.  He 
is  only  making  believe  to  be  very  bold;  and  if  Mr. 
Greyhurst  represents  to  him  the  state  of  feeling 


134  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

here,  he  will  be  pretty  well  alarmed  at  the  attitude 
of  his  Confederate  friends." 

"That  is  very  sensible,  dear,  and  no  doubt  true; 
but  he  will  say  yes  to-day,  and  no  to-morrow,  and 
I  shall  be  presumed  to  have  advised  him.  That  is 
where  the  mischief  will  come  in.  And  now  I  must 
go." 

Constance  was  fully  resolved  to  have  her  own 
share  in  these  counsels.  She  saw  her  husband's  un 
easiness,  and  was  sensible  that  there  was  peril  in 
the  air,  and  a  general  belief  that  this  absentee  mil 
lionaire  was  standing  in  the  way  of  progress  and 
threatening  men  who  had  been  soldiers  and  for 
whom  the  deepest  sympathy  was  felt.  She  was  as 
clear  as  George  that  to  relieve  the  squatters  and 
make  easy  settlements  with  the  owners  of  mort 
gaged  lands  would  leave  only  the  larger  matter 
of  the  more  valuable  land-claim  on  the  bend.  She 
cared  nothing  for  what  her  uncle  might  make  or 
lose,  but  she  had  had  one  stern  illustration  of  the 
methods  of  the  rude  men  who  considered  them 
selves  wronged,  and  how  the  issues  were  to  affect 
her  husband  had  been  from  the  first  her  chief 
anxiety.  She  had  been  fortunate  in  her  venture 
with  Coffin,  and  now  again  she  meant  to  act,  and 
was  the  more  resolute  because  she  was  not  quite 
at  ease  in  regard  to  Trescot's  health.  He  had  felt 
the  summer's  heat,  and  more  often  than  before 
carried  his  right  arm  caught  for  support  in  his 
waistcoat. 

As  the  day  proved  cool,  Mr.  Hood  decided  to 
walk.  When  he  stood  in  front  of  the  one-story 


CONSTANCE   TRESCOT  135 

wooden  office  of  John  Greyhurst,  he  considered 
with  disapproval  the  want  of  fresh  paint  and 
the  ill-kept  window-panes.  They  gave  him  a 
sense  of  superiority.  He  was  himself  as  neat  as 
a  cat. 

He  went  up  the  entry,  and  in  a  moment  was  in 
the  presence  of  Greyhurst,  who  knew  at  a  glance 
that  the  eager  little  gentleman  in  well-fitting  gray 
summer  dress  must  be  Mr.  Hood.  As  he  rose  to  wel 
come  him,— large,  square-shouldered,  and  powerful, 
—the  contrast  was  striking. 

"Mr.  Hood,  I  am  sure." 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  cordial  greeting.  Greyhurst  removed 
some  law  books  from  a  chair,  and  they  sat  down, 
Mr.  Hood  saying:  "It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to 
see  you.  You  may  not  be  aware  that  I  am  one  of  the 
many  at  the  North  whose  sympathies  were  with  the 
South,  and  I  have  long  felt  that  if  I  could  ven 
ture,  at  my  age,  to  come  to  St.  Ann,  I  might" 
he  remembered  Trescot's  warning— "I  might  clear 
up  some  misunderstandings." 

The  lawyer  was  not  one  of  those  who,  like  Tres- 
cot,  could  let  a  man  go  on  to  tangle  himself  in  the 
net  of  his  own  garrulity.  He  said :  "Oh,  there  have 
been  more  than  enough  troubles,  sir.  You  are  quite 
correct,  but  I  should  hesitate  to  call  them  misunder 
standings,  unless  Mr.  Trescot  has  utterly  set  aside 
your  wishes.  He  is  a  bolder  man  than  your  former 
agent,— I  may  say,  a  rasher  man.  He  has  taken 
measures  to  turn  out  some  broken-down  soldiers 
from  their  miserable  little  clearings.  He  has  given 


136  CONSTANCE  TBESCOT 

notices  of  merciless  foreclosures.     To  some  of  these 
people  it  is  ruin." 

Hood  had  not  the  frankness  to  say  that  these 
had  been  his  own  very  positive  orders,  nor  that 
Trescot  had  insisted  on  milder  measures.  He  moved 
uneasily  as  he  returned: 

"I  am  inclined  to-be  lenient,  but  business  is  busi 
ness,  Mr.  Greyhurst." 

"Yes,  no  doubt;  but  I  think  that  you  ought  to  be 
aware  that  we  are  a  wrecked  people ;  that  people  with 
no  money  cannot  pay;  and,  worst  of  all,  there  is 
that  land-claim  at  the  bend.  One  of  our  oldest 
families  is  interested,  and  has  the  sympathy  of 
our  entire  community.  The  failure  to  settle  this 
is  standing  in  the  way  of  our  prosperity  and 
limiting  our  river  facilities.  I  do  not  imagine,  sir, 
that  you  know  our  hot-blooded  people.  There  is 
risk,  sir,— peril,— in  the  course  that  is  .being  pur 
sued." 

"Peril!"  said  the  little  old  gentleman,  sitting  up. 
"I  do  not  understand."  He  was  imposed  upon  by 
the  emphatic  statements  of  the  stalwart,  dark-faced 
man.  "I  should  be  glad  to  be  enlightened.  Who 
is  in  danger?" 

Greyhurst  had  no  desire  to  go  beyond  vague  gen 
eralities. 

"Yes,  I  said  there  was  peril  If  you  lived  here 
you  would  understand.  No  Southern  community 
will  tamely  submit  to  these  measures.  A  compro 
mise,  with  a  fair  division  of  the  water-front  at  the 
bend,  would  quiet  the  feeling.  The  rest  would  be 
easy  to  manage.  I  have  urged  this  in  vain.  Mr. 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  137 

Trescot  pleads  your  orders.  As  a  lawyer  I  assure 
you  your  claim  will  not  stand." 

Hood  held  up  the  hand  of  appeal.  "I— I,  sir,  will 
consider  the  matter.  I  will  talk  it  over  with  Mr. 
Trescot.  I  will  speak  to  the  general." 

He  had  come  hither  to  talk  business,  as  he  called 
it,  and  was  scared  and  humiliated.  This  was  not 
business.  He  went  on:  "We  would  be  prepared  to 
go  into  any  reasonable  propositions. ' ' 

"I  have  invited  them  over  and  over." 

"Dear  me!  that  is  bad,  very  bad." 

"Then  you  agree  to  divide  the  water-front?" 

"Oh,  no;  I  could  not  say  that;  I— I  am  accus 
tomed  to  discuss  such  matters.  I  don 't  quite  know. ' ' 

He  was  getting  confused  and  nervous,  and  as 
eager  to  get  away  as  he  had  been  to  come.  He  rose. 
"It  has  been  a  great  pleasure  to  see  you.  Ah!  my 
hat,  thank  you;  I  must  go  on  to  see  Averill." 

"I  shall  have  the  pleasure  to  call,  and  meanwhile 
you  may  trust  me  to  do  all  I  can  to  restrain  the 
feeling  here.  It  is  bitter,  very  bitter— in  fact,  dan 
gerously  bitter.  Good  morning." 

"Bless  me!"  said  the  old  gentleman,  as  he  en 
tered  the  street,  and  stood  wiping  his  forehead, 
"what  an  abrupt  person!  I  must  talk  to  George 
Trescot." 

As  he  moved  on  he  reflected  that  Greyhurst  had 
no  direct  connection  with  the  affairs  of  the  squatters, 
nor  with  the  mortgages.  If  he  intended  to  alarm 
him,  Rufus  Hood,  he  should  learn  that  it  was  not 
easy.  The  further  he  got  away  from  the  impressive 
physical  bulk  and  threatening  manner  of  the  law- 


138  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

yer,  the  more  he  resolved  to  have  his  rights.  He 
was,  as  I  have  said,  close  and  narrow  in  business 
affairs,  but  outside  of  them  not  ungenerous,  and 
very  willing  to  let  the  left  hand  know  of  the  bounty 
of  the  right.  After  he  had  ousted  these  land  rob 
bers  he  migKt  help  them— might  do  something.  The 
idea  of  thus  posing  as  a  benefactor  refreshed  him. 
He  went  on  to  Averill's. 

He  found  the  general  rather  doubtful  as  to  the 
very  valuable  land  at  the  bend.  It  was  a  difficult 
matter;  nor  was  he  much  disposed  to  make  that  or 
any  of  Hood's  business  appear  easy.  He  said  no 
thing  of  the  new  evidence.  Mr.  Hood  would  have 
to  yield  and  not  drive  men  to  extremities.  He  told 
him  that  Trescot  would  set  before  him  in  full,  as 
concerned  the  water-front,  the  state  of  the  evidence 
in  his  favor.  It  must  rest  largely  on  their  ability 
to  prove  the  bounds  of  a  survey  made  for  Mr. 
Hood 's  father  forty  years  back.  If  they  failed, 
then  the  Baptiste  heirs  would  come  in  under  an 
old  French  title.  When  Hood  mentioned  what  the 
lawyer  had  said  of  violence  and  public  opinion, 
Averill  laughed.  "A  little  bluff.  The  man  is  not 
very  sure  of  his  case.  After  Mr.  Trescot  talks  to 
you,  we  will  be  better  able  to  decide  if  it  be  well  to 
compromise. ' ' 

' l  Compromise !  That  I  will  never  do.  I  am  not 
a  man  to  be  scared  out  of  my  rights. " 

Averill  smiled  and  said:  "Be  gentle  with  the 
squatters  and  the  rest.  Their  lands  are  of  small 
value ;  the  water  is  shoal  near  the  town ;  soon  or  late 
all  our  business  has  got  to  go  to  the  bend.  I  should 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  139 

willingly  abandon  all  your  other  interests  to  insure 
that." 

Mr.  Hood  went  away  well  pleased.  Here  was  busi 
ness  and  to  spare.  He  would  be  firm,  firm.  He 
struck  his  stick  on  the  broad  sidewalk,  and  went  on. 
In  the  afternoon  Constance  took  her  uncle  to 
drive  in  a  buggy  along  a  bad  wood-road  to  see  the 
]ands  so  long  in  dispute.  It  gave  her  the  opportu 
nity  she  needed. 

In  the  woods  she  tied  the  horse  and  walked  about 
until   her  uncle   was   tired   and   much   bewildered. 
Then  they  sat  down  on  a  log.     He  had  been  tell 
ing  her  over  and  over  how  determined  he  was.     At 
last,  during  a  pause  in  his  repetitions,  she  said : 
"What  do  you  mean  to  do  about  the  squatters?" 
"Turn  them  out,  of  course.     It  is  my  land." 
"They  are  pretty  lawless  men,  Uncle  Rufus." 
"Oh,  I  have  heard  all  about  that  from  Mr.  Grey- 
hurst.     I  am  not  a  man  to  be  easily  alarmed.     The 
general  says  it  is  all  talk— pure  bluff." 
"Indeed?     Were  you  ever  shot  at?" 
"  I !     God  bless  me !  no.     What  do  you  mean  ? 
Why  should  I  be  shot  at?" 

"When  George  first  came  here,  or  soon  after, 
these  men  were  told  that  you  meant  to  eject  them, 
and  that  he  would  act  promptly.  One  of  them  shot 
at  George;  I  had  just  left  him;  it  was  at  night." 

The  neat  little  old  man  was  at  once  uneasy,  and 
looked  about  him,  saying:  "Good  gracious,  Con 
stance  !  It  must  have  been  an  accident.  Are  you 
sure?  Do  they  live  near  here?" 

"The  bullet  broke  a  pane  of  glass.     If  you  are 


140  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

curious,  you  can  see  the  hole  it  made  in  the  wall. 
Now,  uncle,  this  is  serious,  and  not  a  matter  for  doubt 
or  delay.  You  have  tied  George  up  so  that  he  is 
hated,  and  I  do  not  know  what  may  happen.  He 
has  done  some  things  to  quiet  these  men.  He  has 
settled  certain  of  the  mortgages,  and  you  will  have 
to  stand  by  his  acts;  but  there  is  still  danger.  If 
you  had  been  here,  it  would  have  been  you  they 
would  have  shot  at.  You  have  been  merciless,  and  it 
has  got  to  stop.  I  will  not  have  George  killed  in 
order  that  you  may  make  a  few  thousand  dollars.  I 
will  not  have  it ! " 

1  'How  violent  you  are,  Constance!  You  don't 
suppose  there  is  any— any  danger  now?  It  was 
most  inconsiderate,  most  unusual.  Of  course  the 
man  was  arrested." 

" Arrested?  No;  you  can't  arrest  a  whole  town. 
I  mean  that  public  opinion  would  be  on  his  side. 
He  got  away,  and  no  one  knows  of  it.  If  you  talk 
of  it  I  will  never,  never  forgive  you." 

"I  will  not,"  he  said.  "I  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing.  It  is  awful." 

She  turned  sharply  as  they  sat  on  the  log.  ''You 
say  it  is  awful.  It  is  you  who  made  what  would 
have  been  easy  full  of  risk  to  my  husband.  It  lies 
with  you  to  put  an  end  to  this  state  of  things.  If 
you  will  not,  I  shall  leave  St.  Ann  with  George— oh, 
at  once !  Now  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  We  have 
already  talked  of  it— of  leaving." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  he  returned 
feebly. 

"Will  you  agree  to  let  George  buy  off  the  squat 
ters?" 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  141 

"I  will  talk  to  him.  Women  know  nothing  of 
business." 

"I  do,  uncle.  George  Trescot  is  my  business.  This 
trifling  with  my  husband's  life  and  my  happiness 
must  end — now  and  here.  You  talk  of  business!" 
She  rose  and  stood  facing  him.  "1  am  in  the  busi 
ness  of  life.  Either  you  do  as  I  say,  or  I  shall  make 
George  give  up  your  affairs  and  go  away.  You  have 
been  entirely  regardless  of  what  might  happen. 
George  and  the  general  wrote  to  you  over  and  over; 
you  did  not  reply  or  you  refused  to  yield  anything. 
These  rebel  friends  of  yours  hate  you ;  and  now  this 
attempt  at  murder  comes  as  a  result  of  your  selfish 
folly." 

"No  one  mentioned  this— this  remarkable  inci 
dent.  I  have  been  left  in  the  most  culpable  igno 
rance.  I  am  a  perfectly  reasonable  man.  Let  Tres 
cot  clear  them  out,  and  I  will— well,  I  will  then  see 
what  may  be  done  to  help  them." 

"Yes;  you  will  see;  and  with  George  dead,  and 
you  too  if  you  announce  your  intention  and  stay 
here.  I  will  not  have  it.  Will  you  do  as  George 
wants,  or  will  you  not?" 

"I  will  not  be  bullied.    I  must  think  it  over." 

"You  will  do  no  such  thing.  This  life  of  sus 
pense  is  simply  unendurable.  Have  you  no  com 
mon  sense — no  compassion  for  me,  no  realization  of 
the  danger  you  have  brought  upon  us  ? "  She  turned 
from  him  with  a  gesture  of  despair,  crying:  "You 
are  an  impossible  person.  You  have  neither  common 
sense  nor  heart.  I  have  done  with  you.  I  hope  never 
to  see  you  again. ' '  As  she  ended,  she  moved  away 
with  quick  steps  through  the  darkening  wood. 


142  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"Great  heavens!"  he  cried,  as  he  stood  up. 
"Are  you  going  to  leave  me  here  alone?" 

"I  am;  you  can  walk  home." 

1 '  Constance  !    Constance ! "  he  cried. 

She  turned  back.     "Well,  what  is  it?" 
.  "I  will  do  it." 

"  Yes— until  you  get  home.  Oh,  you  and  your 
money !  I  want  no  more  of  it ;  I  had  rather  sew  or 
beg." 

"But  I  will  do  it.    George  may  do  as  he  likes." 

"And  you  will  pay?  You  will  let  him  settle  with 
the  squatters?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"And  the  other  things— the  foreclosures?" 

"Yes,  yes."  He  rose,  very  shaky.  She  gave  him 
her  arm  as  he  tottered. 

"And  about  the  lands  here?" 

"I  will  never  give  them  up." 

She  smiled,  and,  contented  with  her  victory,  said : 
"I  would  not  if  I  were  you.  Here  is  the  buggy." 

He  was  silent  all  the  way  home,  nursing  his 
wrath. 

Her  husband  met  them  as  they  entered  his  library. 

' '  Have  you  had  a  pleasant  drive,  Mr.  Hood  ? ' ' 

"I  have  not,  sir.    It  has  been  most  disagreeable." 

"My  uncle  has  agreed,  George,  that  whatever 
terms  you  may  make  with  the  squatters,  and  about 
the  mortgages,  he  will  abide  by  them." 

Trescot  was  surprised.  "Oh,  thank  you,"  he  cried. 
"It  is  a  great  relief,  sir,  great—'1 

"I  agreed  to  it  under  compulsion,"  said  Hood. 
"On  reflection,  I  am  of  opinion—" 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  143 

Trescot  turned  on  him.  "Did  you  tell  my  wife 
you  would  do  as  she  has  said?" 

"I  did;  but,  upon  reconsidering,  I— 

1 '  Then,  sir,  I  shall  act  on  your  very  wise  decision ; 
and  it  is  time  I  did,  and  none  too  soon.  I  will  talk 
it  all  over  with  you  to-night  or  to-morrow." 

"We  shall  see,"  said  the  old  man;  "I  am  too 
weak  to  discuss  matters  at  present. ' ' 

"I  have  no  desire  to  do  so,"  returned  Trescot. 

"Uncle,"  said  Susan,  an  amused  listener,  "you 
had  better  lie  down  before  dinner;  you  must  be 
tired." 

"Damn  everybody!"  said  the  old  man,  and  disap 
peared,  clutching  at  Susan's  arm. 

"And  now,  dear,"  said  George,  "as  you  have  been 
acting  for  me  in  this  business— 

"No,  no;  I  was  acting  for  myself." 

"I  see,  dear;  and  what  did  you  say  to  that  im 
probable  old  man  ? ' ' 

"I  said  you  had  been  shot  at." 

"Constance!" 

"I  did.  He  thinks  he  will  be  killed.  I  told  him 
that  would  be  a  great  relief.  Oh,  I  said  horrid 
things.  He  is  half  dead  already." 

"Do  you  think  you  were  altogether  wise  to  make 
him  angry?" 

"What  do  I  care?  I  am  a  woman  in  love,  at  bay. 
Oh,  I  used  my  claws;  but  he  gave  way;  he  always 
does.  To-morrow  he  will  change  his  mind. ' ' 

"Be  at  ease,  dear;  I  am  too  relieved  to  give  him  a 
chance  to  escape.  I  could  not  have  used  any  risk 
I  run,  or  have  run,  to  make  your  uncle  give  me  a 


144  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

free  hand;  but  I  should  simply  have  said,  Either 
I  am  to  do  as  seems  best,  or  I  give  up  the  charge  of 
your  affairs." 

"I  told  him  you  would." 

Susan  entered,  laughing.  "George,"  she  said, 
"my  uncle  wants  a  time-table  of  the  railroad  East. 
What  have  you  done  to  him,  Conny?" 

George  and  Constance  laughed  as  she  replied,  "I 
frightened  him  well." 

"He  is  a  bit  over-cooked,  Conny,"  said  Susan. 
"Did  you  tell  him  he  would  be  scalped?  He  is  in 
a  panic." 

"He  won't  be  to-morrow,"  returned  Constance, 
still  a  little  cross. 

"He  thinks  he  will  not  get  up  for  dinner.  When 
ever  his  feelings  are  hurt  by  you  or  me  he  decides  to 
make  a  new  will.  I  shall  hear  of  it  to-morrow.  I 
have  been  very  rich,  steeped  in  poverty,  and  mod 
erately  well  off.  He  tells  me  all  about  it  every 
time.  It  would  be  very,  very  funny  if  there  were 
not  too  much  of  it.  It  is  money,  money,  money.  I 
think  there  must  be  devil-saints  and  their  blood- 
money.  It  is  an  obsession  with  Uncle  Rufus.  He 
is  now  being  robbed  and  ruined  by  these  unlucky 
squatters,  and  is  talking  of  giving  thousands  to 
endow  an  asylum  for  the  orphans  of  dead  rebels! 
It  all  has  its  serious  side,  but  I  could  not  help  being 
amused. ' ' 

"Amused?  There  is  nothing  amusing  about  it- 
nothing.  Nothing  as  unreasonable  as  Uncle  Rufus 
is  amusing  to  me ;  and  he  is  always  acting,  with  him 
self  for  audience  when  the  play  does  n't  draw.  He 


fl  I 

1  ) 
CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  145 

was  horribly  scared,  Susan.  Is  he  still?  I  have 
worse  things  in  store  if  he  should  dare  to  change  his 
mind.  This  is  no  matter  for  laughter.  I  hope  he 
will  go.  This  is  all  of  my  life.  It  is  George  Tres- 
cot. ' '  She  was  becoming  more  and  more  excited  and 
angry. 

"I  shall  do  nothing  to  keep  him  here/'  said  Tres 
cot,  laying  a  hand  on  her  arm.  "But  be  quiet, 
dear." 

Never  before  had  he  seen  her  swept  by  such  a 
storm  of  passionate  wrath. 

She  drew  herself  up  at  his  touch,  and  was  in 
stantly  quieted,  like  some  splendid  animal  tamed 
and  stilled  by  the  touch  of  a  master. 

''I  did  not  mean  to  laugh  at  you,"  said  Susan, 
her  kindly  face,  with  its  great  power  of  expression, 
becoming  suddenly  grave;  "but  you  ought  by  this 
time  to  know,  Conny  dear,  that  everything  has  its 
droll  side  for  me.  You  take  uncle  too  seriously. 
You  get  superbly  angry ;  I  make  him  appear  ridicu 
lous.  Either  answers;  and,  dear,  the  anger  hurts 
you;  the  ridicule  is  effective,  and  hurts  no  one.  I 
am  altogether  on  your  side.  But  what  about  that 
time-table?" 

"I  have  none,"  said  Trescot;  "and  he  cannot  go 
until  we  have  set  all  this  matter  at  rest.  After 
that  he  cannot  go  too  soon." 

"Very  well;  he  shall  stay  just  as  long  as  you 
want,"  said  Susan,  and  left  the  room. 

Then  Constance  sat  down  and  burst  into  tears. 

"What  is  it,  my  love?"  said  Trescot,  comforting 

her. 
10 


146  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"Oh,  everything,  George,  everything;  I  did  not 
think  any  one  could  be  as  heartless.  I  hope  they  will 
all  go  away— oh,  soon;  I  want  you  to  myself." 

"I  do  not  think  he  will  stay,  and  I  do  not  want 
him;  he  will  only  muddle  matters.  Come  out  into 
the  garden;  we  will  talk  of  other  things.  Let  this 
rest." 

It  was  his  way  to  avoid  needless  discussions,  and, 
having  settled  a  thing  and  reached  a  decision,  to 
dwell  upon  it  no  longer.  It  was  otherwise  with 
Constance.  It  required  a  distinct  effort,  as  Susan 
said,— and  she  knew  her  sister  well,— "for  Conny  to 
pick  the  burs  off  her  mind."  He,  too,  was  begin 
ning  to  observe  the  persistency  with  which  she  dwelt 
upon  unpleasant  and,  indeed,  pleasant  ideas. 

The  quiet  of  a  windless  night,  with  the  unclouded 
brilliancy  of  the  Southern  heavens,  was  over  them 
as  they  went  into  the  garden.  She  slipped  her  hand 
into  his,  and  they  walked  up  and  down  the  garden 
path.  After  a.  little  she  said.  "I  behaved  like  a  bad 
child.  You  do  not  scold  me,  George." 

"I  never  shall.  You  have  that  within  which 
scolds  enough  at  need. ' ' 

"I  sometimes  doubt  it." 

"Oh,  no;  never  do  that." 

"I  envy  you  your  patience,  George.  I  wonder 
if  ever  I  shall  be  like  you.  They  say  husband  and 
wife  do  sometimes  grow  to  be  alike." 

' '  Or  more  and  more  unlike.  We  are  both  distinct 
characters,  and  both  strong  natures ;  we  shall  never 
grow  into  resemblance." 

She  made  no  immediate  reply,  but  after  a  little 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  147 

asked  inconsequently :  "Were  you  ever  afraid, 
George?" 

"Oh,  often;  always  when  going  under  fire.  Why 
do  you  ask?" 

"I  have  been  afraid  of  late;  I  do  not  know  why. 
It  is  like  the  fear  in  a  dream.  Is  there  such  a  thing 
as  pure,  causeless  fear?" 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "some  insane  people  have  it,  or 
so  I  have  heard." 

"Well,  I  am  not  that,"  she  said,  laughing.  "I 
suppose  it  is  a  result  of  my  long  anxiety  about  you 
—my  sense  of  danger  ever  since  that  dreadful 
night." 

"Well,"  he  returned,  "we  are,  or  are  going  to  be, 
in  quiet  waters.  See  how  glorious  Orion  is. ' ' 

She  was  not  yet  to  be  turned  aside. 

"Oh,  I  was  quite  hopeless  about  these  wretched 
affairs,  and  you  never  are;  and  you  are  always  pa 
tient  with  me  and  every  one,  even  when  things  seem 
so  utterly  hopeless." 

"Ah,  Constance: 

"  'Where  hope  is  none 
Patience  is  there  a  god.'  ' 

"How  you  love  to  quiet  me  with  a  quotation!  It 
is  very  clever.  I  never  have  an  answer.  Is  n't  that 
Jupiter,  George?"  she  said,  looking  up  at  the  shin 
ing  stars. 

"Yes;  I  think  it  is.  What  a  little  part  of  it  all 
we  are ;  and  yet  we  are.  And,  like  the  great  rolling 
worlds  overhead,  we  too  are  pulled  by  a  hundred 


148  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

exterior  forces  and,  like  them,  must  keep  our  orbits 
steadily. ' ' 

" Thank  you,"  she  said;  "I  accept  the  lesson.  I 
will  try;  you  know  what  is  for  me  the  one  over 
ruling  force." 

' '  I  know,  dear ;  but  there  are  others. ' ' 

"Is  not  love  enough?" 

"Yes;  the  love  that  is  in  and  of  all  earthly  love 
at  its  best." 

She  walked  on  in  silence,  and  then  returned:  "I 
understand  you ;  but  do  you  think  I  could  ever  love 
you  more  or  better  than  I  do?" 

He  hesitated,  and  then  answered:  "Will  you  not 
love  me  better  as  the  years  go  on,  and  as,  with  God's 
help,  I  shall  be  better  worth  the  loving,— for,  indeed, 
I  mean  to  be?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes." 

"Then  there  will  be  reasons  for  love's  sweet  in 
crease.  ' ' 

"I  am  trapped!"  she  cried,  laughing.  "You 
ought  to  be  ashamed.  Good  night";  and  kissing 
him,  she  went  away,  crying:  "It  was  not  fair;  I 
shall  be  careful  how  I  make  admissions." 


XII 


I  US  AN  announced  next  day  at  break 
fast  that  her  uncle  would  remain  in  his 
room,  and  desired  to  be  alone.  He 
wished  Constance  to  know  that  the 
toast  was  burned,  and  that  he  had  re 
ceived  a  shock  to  a  sensitive  nervous  system.  "My 
dear  Conny,  he  thinks  them  equally  important.  He 
wished  me  to  say  to  you— and  I  do,  dear,  for  he 
will  ask  me— I  was  to  say  that  the  least  gratitude 
on  your  part  would  have  saved  him  from  this  dis 
tressing  incident." 

"Toast  or  nervous  shock?"  asked  Constance. 
"Don't  be  cynical,  dear,"  said  Susan;  "toast,  of 
course. ' ' 

Trescot  declined  any  connection  with  the  matter, 
and  went  away  laughing. 

On  the  following  day  Mr.  Hood  came  down  to 
breakfast.  He  was  unusually  silent,  and  refusing 
to  say  where  he  was  going,  went  out  alone.  He 
lunched  with  General  Averill,  and  returned  late, 
having  elaborately  arranged  his  ideas  for  the  legal 
consultation  to  take  place  that  evening. 

When  Constance,  mildly  penitent  as  to  methods 
because  victorious,  asked  him  to  walk  in  the  garden, 
he  said  he  preferred  his  own  society,  and  declined 

149 


150  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

the  rose  she  offered,  with  a  well-worn  classical  quo 
tation  concerning  the  Greeks  and  their  gifts. 

When  Susan  reminded  him  of  the  need  to  rest 
before  dinner,  he  said  in  a  querulous  tone  that  he 
was  never  left  alone  a  moment,  and  he  wished 
Susan  would  attend  to  her  own  affairs. 

"My  dear  Conny,"  said  Susan  on  her  return, 
"when  Uncle  Rufus  pinches  you  or  me,  it  is  because 
some  one  whom  he  cannot  pinch  has  been  pinching 
him.  I  know  his  subdued  look.  Something  dis 
agreeable  has  happened.  He  will  be  sure  to  tell 
us  all  about  it." 

At  dinner  he  seemed  to  have  recovered  his  good 
humor,  and  was  in  one  of  his  talkative  moods,  and 
soon  fulfilled  Susan's  prediction.  Apparently  Con 
stance  was  forgiven;  indeed,  his  resentments  rarely 
lasted  long,  and,  as  Susan  said,  the  sun  would  have 
to  hurry  if  it  meant  to  go  down  upon  his  wrath. 

"Well,  Mr.  Hood,"  said  Trescot,  "we  are  waiting 
to  hear  what  you  think  of  St.  Ann.  You  have  been 
out  all  day." 

"I  find  it  a  remarkable  place— a  most  remarkable 
place." 

"In  what  way,  uncle?"  said  Constance. 

"Oh,  the  people— the  people." 

"But  how  remarkable?"  asked  Trescot.  "In 
every  way?  They  are  very  kindly,  some  of  them 
cross,  and  no  wonder;  but  still,  among  them  there 
are  many  very  pleasant,  well-bred  gentlefolks.  I 
find  a  few  of  the  older  people  really  charming,  with 
their  flavor  of  Creole  ways.  Whom  did  you  meet  ? ' ' 

"I  met  that  rude  animal,  Greyhurst.    He  wanted 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  151 

me  to  come  into  his  office  for  another  talk.     I  de 
clined.    He  is  a  brute." 

"But,  really,  I  do  not  think  he  means  to  be  ill- 
mannered  or  rude,"  said  Trescot.  "He  certainly 
is  impulsive  and  short  of  temper." 

"That  is  very  well,  sir;  but  I  conceive  myself 
to  be  at  least  able  to  judge  of  manners.  A 
brute,  sir;  a  wild  beast.  I  desire  to  be  understood 
as  stating  categorically  that  he  is  a  mannerless 
cur." 

"That  seems  definite.  I  am  glad  you  refused  to 
talk  business." 

"I  did." 

"Whom  else  did  you  see?"  asked  Susan,  begin 
ning  to  enjoy  herself,  with  murmured  comments  to 
her  sister  about  the  spider  and  the  fly. 

"I  met  at  the  general's  Colonel  Dudley,  of  Gen 
eral  Stonewall  Jackson's  staff.  I  found  him  in 
teresting.  When  I  expressed  myself  with  regard  to 
my  convictions  concerning  State  rights,  we  had  a 
very  agreeable  conversation.  We  went  away  from 
Averill's  together,  and  he  took  me  to  their  club.  He 
was  somewhat  in  doubt  as  to  my  argument  in  re 
gard  to  the  secession  of  the  individual  as  justifying 
thaf  of  the  State." 

"Is  n't  that  fine,  Conny?"  said  Susan,  in  a  whis 
per.  "Why  not  divorce  as  an  additional  argument? 
Is  n't  that  a  form  of  secession?" 

Longing  to  pass  on  Susan's  contributions  to  her 
husband,  Constance  asked:  "Whom  did  you  meet 
there?" 

"The  accommodations  are  very  remarkable,  I  be- 


152  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

lieve,"  said  Trescot;  "but  I  have  never  been  inside 
of  the  club." 

"The  colonel  explained  to  me,"  replied  Hood, 
"why  there  were  no  front  steps;  they  contemplate 
larger  quarters.  We  went  in  at  the  back;  in  fact, 
through  the  kitchen." 

"Well,"  said  Susan,  "that  is  rather  novel;  but 
it  might  be  of  use  when  one  is  going  out  to  dine." 

"There  appeared  to  be  but  one  room,  and  a  kind 
of  bar  at  one  end— quite  genially  provincial." 

"Delightful,"  whispered  Susan.  "I  am  sure  he 
told  them  so." 

"I  hope  they  made  you  juleps,  uncle,"  said  Con 
stance.  "They  are  delicious." 

"They  did.  I  was  presented  to  several  Confed 
erate  officers.  Every  one  of  them  had  a  separate 
receipt  for  a  mint-julep.  The  old  black  fellow 
seemed  to  know  them  all.  I  tried  one— I  think  it 
was  Colonel  La  Grange's  grandfather's  receipt.  I 
regretted  it;  I  was  a  little  giddy  after  it.  I  drank 
to  the  memory  of  the  Confederacy— a  tribute— 

1 1  Tithes  of  mint,  Conny, ' '  said  Susan. 

"Did  you  really  do  that,  uncle?"  said  Constance. 

"I  did." 

"Did  they  like  your  toast?"  asked  Trescot,  as  he 
caught  his  wife's  expression  of  mirthful  surprise. 

"Like  it?  Yes,  I  think  so;  they  did  not  say  so. 
They  appeared  to  me  to  be  more  reserved  than  I 
had  expected  to  find  them." 

"You  must  have  enjoyed  your  visit,"  remarked 
Susan,  on  the  track  of  inquiry. 

"Not  altogether;  one  of  them— a  Captain  Tracy— 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  153 

pointed  out  the  photographs  of  Jefferson  Davis  and 
General  Lee,  and  a  bad  copy  of  Peale  's  Washington. 
Colonel  Dudley  asked  me  on  which  side  I  supposed 
Washington  would  have  been  had  he  lived  in  the 
time  of  our  late  war.  I  said  he  could  have  been  on 
only  one  side." 

' '  That  seems  prob'able, ' '  said  Susan,  with  complete 
gravity;  "but  did  they  agree  with  you,  uncle?" 

"No;  they  did  not.  Colonel  La  Grange  said 
Washington  was 'a  damned  Federalist,  and  would 
have  been  with  the  North.  He  liked  a  strong  central 
government. ' ' 

' '  That  is  fine, ' '  exclaimed  Trescot,    ' '  I  like  that. ' ' 

"I  did  not.  It  was  disgusting,  sir;  and  they 
all  laughed.  I  was  shocked.  After  that  I  ven 
tured  to  sound  some  of  them  about  the  absurd  feel 
ing  I  understand  to  exist  here  in  regard  to  the 
squatters. ' ' 

"I  am  sorry  you  did  that,"  said  Trescot. 

1 '  And  so  was  I, ' '  said  Hood,  meekly.  ' '  They  were, 
I  may  say,  quite  unpleasant." 

"But,"  said  Constance,  "you  told  them,  I  hope, 
that  you  meant  to  buy  up  these  claims." 

' '  I  did  not ;  I  have  reconsidered  the  matter. ' ' 

"But  I  have  not,"  said  Trescot,  decisively,  push 
ing  back  his  chair.  "I  hear  the  general." 

"Dear  me!"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "how  very 
hasty  everybody  is!" 

"I  am  in  no  hurry,"  said  Constance;  "and  Susan 
was  never  in  a  hurry  in  all  her  life.  Take  your 
wine  in  peace  with  us,  uncle.  George  will  send  for 
you  when  he  and  Mr.  Averill  are  ready." 


154  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"  General  Averill,"  corrected  Mr.  Hood,  cracking 
a  pecan-nut  with  an  emphasizing  snap. 

"Major-general,'1   said   Susan,   with  an  upward 

lift  of  her  eyebrows,  and  a  touch  of  her  sister's  foot. 

"Yes,  yes;  thank  you,  my  dear.     There  are  so 

many  generals  here  it  is  quite  confusing.     One  is 

an  editor,  I  understand." 

Constance  was  thus  reminded  of  her  desire  that 
her  uncle  should  see  the  "St.  Ann  Herald,"  and, 
rising,  said: 

"I  think,  uncle,  you  may  like  to  see  the  general- 
editor's  paper.  I  never  fail  to  read  it.  Here  it  is"; 
and  so  saying,  she  laid  it  on  the  table  and  sat  down 
to  observe  what  would  be  the  result  of  this  inno 
cent  effort  to  instruct  and  amuse. 

While  Susan  took  up  a  book  and  Constance  sat 
expectant,  Mr.  Hood  adjusted  his  glasses  and  began 
to  consider  the  small  sheet  before  him.  Some  peo 
ple  read  the  dailies,  some  run  over  them  as  indexes 
of  passing  events.  Mr.  Hood  studied  them.  For 
ten  minutes  he  was  absorbed.  Constance  watched 
him  as  a  boy  watches  the  bob  of  his  fishing-line.  At 
last,  desiring  an  appreciative  conspirator,  she  said: 
"Susan,  did  you  bring  me  our  old  receipt-book?" 
Susan,  looking  up,  caught  her  eye.  "Yes;  shall 
I  get  it  now  ? ' ' 

"No."  Having  drawn  Susan's  attention,  a  slight 
facial  gesture  indicated  her  desire  that  Susan  should 
be  the  appreciative  boy  on  the  bank.  Susan,  in 
stantly  comprehending,  began  to  observe  her  uncle. 
Presently,  and  without  looking  up,  he  murmured : 
"Very  remarkable."  It  was  a  way  he  had  when 


CONSTANCE  TBESCOT  155 

thus  engaged.  "Very  satisfactory.  The  C.  and 
St.  A.  is  thinking  of  a  line  to  the  bend.  Hum!  I 
might  assist  that.  Good  gracious!  That  is  in 
teresting.  ' ' 

He  began  to  read  aloud,  while  Constance  and  her 
sister  exchanged  smiles.  His  way  of  announcing 
what  interested  him  in  his  paper  failed  altogether 
to  consider  the  occupying  interests  of  others.  The 
habit  is  keenly  felt  in  some  family  circles  as  a 
breakfast  nuisance.  ' '  Cotton  has  gone  up  two  cents. 
What  's  this— what  's  this?— 'We  understand  that 
Mr.  Hood,  the  obstructive  New  England  million 
aire,  is  now  in  St.  Ann  at  the  residence  of  his  niece. 
We  trust  that  he  will  see  the  necessity  of  more  le 
nient  action  in  an  impoverished  community  than  he 
or  his  agent  has  hitherto  shown/  ! 

He  laid  down  the  paper,  and  said:  "What  does 
the  man  mean?  I  must  call  on  him  to-morrow  and 
explain. ' ' 

"I  think  George  would  prefer  to  do  that  him 
self,  uncle.  When  he  announces  your  generous 
intentions  you  will  see  what  a  fine  apology  there 
will  be." 

"Among  you  all  I  seem  to  be  very  little  consid 
ered.  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  I  am  not  a 
puppet  for  George  Trescot  to  pull  the  wires." 

As  neither  woman  replied,  he  returned  to  his 
study  of  the  "  St.  Ann  Herald,"  and  Susan,  on  a 
signal  from  Constance,  to  a  study  of  his  face. 

Presently  he  looked  up  again. 

"Good  heavens!" 

"What  is  it?"  said  Constance. 


156  CONSTANCE  TBESCOT 

"What  a  country!  what  people!  It  is  incred 
ible,  monstrous!" 

"They  are  very  pleasant  people,  uncle.  I  wish 
some  of  our  own  were  as  courteous  and  as  gen 
tle.  We  are  harder,  I  fear.  Of  course  there  are 
all  kinds,  and  some  most  undesirable.  But  what 
is  it?" 

"Most  uncivilized!  Listen  to  this:  'An  unfortu 
nate  rencontre  occurred  yesterday,  on  the  levee,  be 
tween  Mr.  James  Lawton  and  Mr.  Burpee.  We 
regret  to  state  that  the  former  was  wounded— it  was 
supposed  mortally.  Mr.  Burpee  lost  a  finger,  and 
a  small  negro  boy  was  unlucky  enough  to  be  shot 
in  the  stomach.  He  is  now  dead.  The  affair  was 
the  final  result  of  a  long  quarrel  in  regard  to  the 
title  to  a  lot  on  the  main  street.  On  inquiry  we 
learn  that  Mr.  Lawton  is  less  seriously  wounded 
than  had  been  supposed/  ' 

Hood  looked  up  from  the  paper.  "Does  this  kind 
of  thing  occur  often,  Constance?" 

"Oh,  now  and  then,"  she  replied  lightly;  "one 
gets  used  to  it.  You  hear  a  shot,  and  then  people,  as 
they  say,  squander." 

"You  had  better  buy  a  revolver,  uncle,"  said  Su 
san,  laughing. 

He  stood  up,  tottering  a  little.  "It  does  not  pre 
sent  itself  to  me,  young  women,  as  a  matter  for  in 
considerate  mirth.  You  seem  to  forget  that  I  have 
property  in  this  town,  and  that  occurrences  of  this 
kind  may  affect  its  value."  He  began  to  walk 
about  the  room,  the  paper  in  his  hand,  muttering 
to  himself:  "Most  astounding!  most  barbarous!" 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  157 

Both  nieces  preserved  an  amused  silence. 

"I  think  you  stated  that  this  kind  of  incident  is 
common,  Constance." 

"Rather,  uncle." 

It  appeared  to  Susan  a  definite  but  not  very 
pleasing  method  of  settling  a  business  difficulty,  and 
as  she  so  expressed  herself  Trescot  appeared  and 
carried  Mr.  Hood  away  to  the  study,  where  was  Gen 
eral  Averill. 

As  he  disappeared,  Constance  said:  "Of  course, 
dear,  you  saw  that  I  meant  to  make  it  all  as  bad  as 
I  could." 

"You  were  quite  right." 

"In  fact,  this  kind  of  thing  is  very  dreadful. 
Mr.  Lawton  is  really  a  most  agreeable  and  highly 
educated  man,  and  has  been  very  kind  to  George; 
but,  oh,  Susan,  I  have  lived  here  in  constant  ter 
ror.  I  do  not  see  how  the  women  stand  it.  I  had 
already  heard  of  this  last  horror  from  George.  Mr. 
Lawton  is  not  badly  hurt,  but  I  fancied  the  news 
would  be  morally  useful  to  uncle." 

"Is  it  so  common,  Conny  ? ' ' 

"No;  but  it  has  happened  twice  since  we  came— 
once  in  the  country,  and  once  on  the  main  street. 
Two  men  were  killed.  This  is  the  third  of  these 
agreeable  incidents." 

"It  seems  very  dreadful." 

"Yes,  it  is,  it  is ;  and,  dear  Susan,  I  must  tell  you. 
I  was  told  not  to  mention  it,  but  I  must.  George 
was  shot  at  by  one  of  these  squatters."  She  told 
the  story,  but  without  naming  Coffin. 

"Oh,  my  poor  Conny,  why  was  I  not  told  sooner? 


158  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

You  ought  not  to  stay  here.  You  must  not  stay 
here." 

"Oh,  I  do  not  know.  I  hope  not  long,  and  it 
is  not  George's  fault.  We  are  regarded,  by  all  but 
a  few  old  soldiers,  as  hard  and  cruel.  It  is  uncle's 
fault.  There  is  not  one  thing  that  could  not  be  set 
tled  easily  with  a  little  forbearance." 

"Knowing  uncle  as  I  do,  I  can  readily  believe 
you.  I  think,  Conny,  you  sent  him  away  in  an  ex 
cellent  frame  of  mind.  He  will  yield  everything  and 
go  home.  I  suppose  you  told  him  of  this  awful 
thing.  It  was  like  him  to  conceal  it." 

"Yes,  I  told  him ;  and  I  wish  he  would  go.  I  hate 
him!" 

"Oh,  Conny,  not  that." 

"I  do.    I  hate  him!" 

Susan  was  right.  To  the  amazement  of  Averill, 
Hood  stood  to  his  bargain  with  Constance,  and 
agreed  to  give  to  the  squatters  land  on  the  bluff  at 
some  distance  from  the  water-line  of  the  bend.  He 
was  even  willing  to  pay  at  need.  He  authorized 
George  to  withdraw  the  remaining  foreclosures  and 
to  cancel  or  lessen  the  past  indebtedness  for  unpaid 
interest  where  that  seemed  best.  When  Averill  put 
before  him  an  agreement  authorizing  George  to 
carry  these  arrangements  into  effect,  he  hesitated; 
but  at  last,  seeing  Averill  smile,  he  signed  the  paper. 

"It  will  have  an  excellent  influence  on  public 
opinion,"  said  the  general.  "And  what,  now,  about 
the  case  of  the  water-front  at  the  bend?" 

Trescot  waited,  watching  Mr.  Hood.  He  was  sat 
isfied  with  what  he  had  won,  and  not  unwilling  to 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  159 

try  a  case  as  important  as  that  of  the  ejectment  suit 
brought  by  the  heirs  of  the  Baptiste  family.  And 
still  he  felt  that  if  it  were  his  own  land  he  would 
have  listened  to  any  equitable  form  of  settlement 
outside  of  the  courts. 

Here  at  last  was  a  chance  for  the  endless  discus 
sions  which  Hood  enjoyed.  His  eyelids  drew  to 
gether  and  his  face  became  eager  as  he  said:  "I 
should  like  to  go  into  that  matter  fully,  fully." 

"Let  me  state  it,"  said  Trescot.  "Just  forty 
years  ago,  in  1830,  your  father  bought  land  on  the 
bluff  from  the  Baptiste  family.  They  retained  the 
river-front  below  the  bluff,  and  some  of  the  bluff 
to  eastward  of  it.  Even  then  the  shore  had  prospec 
tive  value.  The  river  has  since  then  eaten  away 
their  beach,  their  frontage  on  the  bluff,  and  some 
hundreds  of  feet  of  that  which  your  father  bought. 
You  now  own,  therefore,  the  valuable  river-frontage, 
if  we  can  prove  the  sale  to  your  father  and  define 
the  bounds." 

"That  seems  simple,"  said  Hood. 

"No,"  said  Averill;  "it  is  not  simple." 

"And  why  not?" 

"When  your  people  were  here  in  the  war  we 
burned  the  cotton.  The  old  town  on  the  bluff  took 
fire  and  was  utterly  destroyed;  the  records  were 
burned.  My  own  house  on  the  bluff  went,  and  with 
it  your  deeds.  But  all  this  you  know  as  well  as 
I  do." 

"Yes;  but  the  taxes." 

"Taxes  go  for  little  in  land  cases,  and  where  are 
the  receipts?  I  had  them  once,  but  they,  too,  are 


160  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

gone  with  the  deeds.  We  have  with  difficulty  ac 
quired  the  surveyor's  books  with  a  description  of  the 
lot  and  a  rough  map.  His  wife  had  luckily  kept 
them,  and  will  prove  Hazewell's  writing.  It  is 
hardly  enough,  and  juries  are  very  uncertain." 

"It  is  damned  rascality,"  said  Hood.  "It  is  a 
pure  swindle — blackmail." 

"It  may  be;  but  you  must  not  say  so— least  of 
all  to  Mr.  Greyhurst.  He  is  employed  to  prosecute 
the  Baptiste  claim,  and,  if  he  wins,  will  have  a  large 
fee— perhaps  a  handsome  share  of  the  frontage.  I 
think  him  over-eager—one  of  the  men  who  become 
identified  with  their  clients.  He  is  very  quick-tem 
pered  ;  but  I  do  not  think  him  a  rascal.  One  has  to 
be  careful  here  in  the  use  of  language,  Mr.  Hood." 

"Oh,  of  course— certainly."  He  was  at  once  sub 
dued,  but  said :  ' '  Then  you  advise  me  to  settle  with 
them,  divide,  do  something?"  He  got  up  and 
walked  about.  "I  don't  see  my  way  to  it.  I  won't 
do  it.  No  one  ever  doubted  my  title  until  the  flood 
made  it  valuable.  I  shall  think  it  over.  It  will  re 
quire  further  consideration,  and  I  am  tired — I 
must  beg  to  be  excused.  We  can  take  it  up  again 
to-morrow. ' ' 

"But  had  you  not  better  hear  the  rest  of  the  evi 
dence?"  said  Averill.  Hood  at  once  sat  down,  as 
eager  as  ever.  "One  word,"  said  Averill.  "We 
are  old  friends.  I  ask  you  as  a  favor  to  let  us 
offer  to  divide  the  front,  and  thus  settle  this  busi 
ness.  ' ' 

"I  will  not  do  it.  It  is  contrary  to  my  sense  of 
justice.  I  have  yielded  everything  else.  I  was  bul- 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  161 

lied  by  that  man,  and  insulted  in  the  club.  I  mean 
to  have  this  case  go  to  trial.  Is  that  the  whole  of  our 
case?  You  said  there  was  more." 

"Yes,"  said  Trescot;  "the  general  has  said  it  is 
not  all,  and  is  aware  that  we  can  probably  prove  the 
bounds.  We  shall  find  the  blazed  trees,  and  that, 
with  other  evidence,  ought  to  win  the  case." 

"Then,  sir,  you  meant  to  conceal  this  and  induce 
me  to  settle!" 

Trescot  flushed.  "No;  I  meant  to  tell  you;  you 
interrupted  us;  but  even  now  I  beg  of  you  to  take 
the  more  generous  view.  I  think  we  shall  win;  but 
it  will  go  to  another  court  and  result  in  endless  liti 
gation.  ' ' 

"I  do  not  care."  Trescot 's  last  statement  had 
made  him  obstinate.  "I  shall  tell  Mr.  Greyhurst 
that  I  will  listen  to  no  compromise,  or  perhaps  Tres 
cot  had  better  inform  him  of  my  decision." 

"But,"  said  Averill,  "if  we  win,  will  you  not 
then  consider  the  unfortunate  accident  which  has 
cost  these  people  so  dear,  and  arrange  the  matter?" 

"No,  sir,  I  will  not.  I  mean  to  teach  these  peo 
ple  that—" 

"What  people?"  said  Averill,  coldly. 

"These— this  town.     I  mean  to  have  my  rights." 

Averill  was  both  indignant  and  hurt;  but  see 
ing  that  it  was  vain  to  reason  with  him,  after 
an  unpleasant  talk  they  gave  up.  Trescot,  who 
felt  that  he  had  done  his  duty,  was  not  sorry 
to  accept  the  situation.  It  was  one  to  tempt  a 
young  and  able  lawyer.  Before  leaving  the  house, 
Averill  told  him  that  their  case  would  come  up 
11 


162  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

in  a  week,  which  was  rather  sooner  than  Trescot 
desired. 

Before  going  to  bed,  Mr.  Hood  announced  that  he 
intended  to  leave  the  next  day.  Constance  was  not 
grieved.  She,  however,  urged  him  to  stay;  but  he 
replied : 

"No;  I  never  change  my  mind— you  know  that; 
and  I  am  not  well"— which  was  true.  "I  want  my 
home  comforts,  and  I  wish  to  escape  being  con 
tradicted  every  minute. " 

He  went  at  noon  the  next  day,  taking  Susan  with 
him,  and  assured  Constance,  as  he  left,  that  he  had 
never  been  more  uncomfortable. 

For  an  hour  after  leaving  St.  Ann  he  talked  to 
Susan,  with  apparent  satisfaction,  of  the  ease  with 
which  his  presence  and  capacity  in  affairs  had 
settled  these  long-standing  difficulties.  He  was  at 
no  pains  to  relate  the  various  influential  motives 
which  had  contributed  to  make  him  listen  to  rea 
son.  His  decision  to  abide  by  the  issues  of  the  ap 
proaching  trial  presented  itself  to  his  mind  as  likely 
to  afford  a  useful  lesson  to  a  community  which  he 
described  as  lawless. 

He  soon  made  it  clear  to  Susan  that  his  anger  at 
Constance  was  of  longer  life  than  usual.  "Most 
generally  women  degenerate  when  they  marry.  She 
is  degenerating,  I  think.  She  was  very  impertinent 
to  me." 

"What  did  she  do?" 

"Oh,  no  matter.  It  is  over.  I  have  been  treated 
with  great  disrespect,  Susan.  I  think  I  shall  make 
a  new  will  and  leave  you  everything." 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  163 

"It  would  save  trouble,  uncle.  I  should  at  once 
divide  with  Conny." 

"No,  you  would  not." 

' '  Try  me, ' '  she  laughed.  ' '  I  do  not  think  you  can 
know  me." 

"Do  I  not!  You  are  like  your  father.  It  is  some 
times  an  advantage  to  have  known  two  or  three— 
what  I  may  adequately  describe  as  degenerations. 
You  are  like  him— very  like  him.  He  joked  his  way 
through  life.  He  joked  away  an  estate  as  large  as 
mine,  and  laughed  when  it  was  gone." 

"I  thought,  sir,  it  was  lost  by  his  partner's  ras 
cality." 

"Well,  perhaps  you  know  better  than  I  do." 

Susan  shifted  the  talk.  "But  who  is  Constance 
like?" 

"Like?    She  is  like  her  mother." 

"That  does  not  help  me.  I  never  saw  my  mother 
to  remember  her.  You  have  more  than  once  made 
clear  to  me  that  you  were  not  friends,  and  so  you 
must  pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  to  be  very  careful 
what  you  say." 

"Good  gracious,  Susan!  I  said  nothing  unpleas 
ant.  I  will  say  nothing  of  your  mother ;  but  I  will 
say  that  Constance  is  a  fool,  and  is  very  like  her. 
If  Constance  ever  has  children,  she  will  be  like  a 
tigress  with  her  cubs.  There  's  really  a  good  bit 
more  of  the  savage  animal  in  women  than  in  men." 

"Is  that  your  own  wisdom,  Uncle  Rufus?" 

He  said,  at  times,  things  which  appeared  to  imply 
glimpses  of  insight  into  character  which  were  far 
above  his  ordinary  range  of  appreciations. 


164  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"It  is;  and  I  wish  you  would  stop  talking.  I 
shall  try  to  get  a  nap." 

Susan  made  no  comment.  His  statement  about 
her  sister  was  extreme,  but  was  felt  by  Susan  to 
have  in  it  a  certain  amount  of  truth.  That  in  the 
life  of  their  mother  there  had  been  any  justifica 
tion  for  the  more  than  implied  opinion  of  her,  Susan 
knew  to  be  untrue.  She  was  glad  when  the  talk 
fell  away  and  he  dropped  asleep. 


XIII 

lost  no  time.  He  went  with 
Coffin  and  fixed  on  the  great  trees  of 
the  inland  boundary,  and  made  other 
J  arrangements.  Next  he  called  on 
Averill  to  report  his  success.  He 
found  him  in  bed,  and  likely  to  be  laid  by  for  several 
days.  Thus  deprived  of  his  senior  counsel,  he 
should  have  to  rely  on  himself  alone.  He  felt  him 
self  quite  equal  to  the  task. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  day,  after  Hood's  de 
parture,  he  busied  himself  with  personal  visits  to 
several  of  the  persons  on  whose  properties  he  had 
been  ordered  to  foreclose  mortgages,  and  left  with 
some  of  them,  as  the  agent  of  Mr.  Hood,  entire  or 
partial  releases  from  their  debts  for  past  interest, 
and  a  promise,  in  regard  to  others,  to  give  them  time 
and  lower  rates  of  interest  in  the  future. 

He  had  no  trouble  with  the  squatters.  There  were 
seven  in  all.  He  offered  them  small  holdings,  in  fee 
simple,  on  the  lands  back  of  the  bend,  and,  in  case 
of  failure  in  the  suit,  a  reasonable  compensation  in 
money.  In  this  he  was  aided  by  Coffin,  and  met 
with  no  difficulty. 

Thus  released,  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  case 
before  him,  and,  to  arrange  matters  with  the  op- 

165 


166  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

posing  counsel,  called  upon  Greyhurst.  The  law 
yer  was  in  a  very  good  humor.  He  knew  of  Aver- 
ill's  illness,  and  believed  that  if  the  case  went  at  once 
to  trial  he  would  find  a  feebler  antagonist  in  Trescot. 
He  said:  "Sit  down.  A  little  bourbon?  No?  I 
hope  you  don't  mean  to  ask  for  delay  on  account 
of  Averill's  illness.  I  really  could  not  consent." 

"No;  the  time  is  rather  short,  but  I  can— indeed, 
I  mean  to  be  ready.  The  court  will  reach  it  about 
the  seventh  of  October,  I  suppose. " 

"Yes,  on  the  seventh,  I  am  sure.  I  hear  that  the 
general  is  ill.  Shall  you  have  any  other  counsel?" 

"No;  but  I  do  not  mean  on  that  account  to  ask 
for  postponement.  I  shall  try  it  alone." 

"Do  you  still  feel  that  all  chance  of  settlement 
is  out  of  the  question?" 

"Yes;  I  am  instructed  to  try  the  case." 

"I  can  only  regret  it,"  said  Greyhurst. 

"You  were  so  kind  at  one  time  as  to  warn  me  in 
regard  to  the  hostility  Mr.  Hood's  measures  had 
caused.  I  was  really  very  much  obliged  to  you. 
Now,  as  it  has  no  bearing  on  our  own  case,  you  will 
be  glad  to  know  that  I  have  settled  amicably  most 
of  the  larger  mortgage  cases,  and  also  those  of  the 
poor  fellows  who  have  squatted  on  Mr.  Hood's  land. 
It  has  been  to  me— and  I  fancy  to  them— a  very 
agreeable  relief." 

Greyhurst  was  ill  pleased.  A  weapon  was  lost  to 
him.  Trescot 's  gentle  ways,  his  quiet  manner  and 
well-bred  consideration,  had  made  for  him  friends, 
and  his  success  in  arranging  the  matter  of  the  dam 
aged  cotton  had  obliged  important  people.  And 


CONSTANCE  TKESCOT  167 

now  this  more  than  liberal  treatment  of  debtors 
would  tell  in  his  favor,  and  he  might  find  a  jury 
quite  too  amiably  disposed.  Greyhurst  did  not  like 
it.  To  be  annoyed  was,  with  him,  sure  to  result 
in  anger,  and  that  in  heedless  or  irritating  speech. 
He  said: 

"You  were  very  wise.  The  generosity  comes  at 
a  time  when  it  is  politic." 

Trescot  laughed.  "It  would  have  come  long  ago 
had  I  had  my  way." 

"You  will  find  few  to  believe  that." 

Trescot  rose.  "Mr.  Greyhurst,  we  have  hardly 
had  one  talk  over  this  matter  in  which  you  have  not 
said  something  disagreeable.  I  do  not  see  why  you 
do  so.  I  have  done  nothing  to  entitle  you  to  doubt 
my  word.  We  are  both  old  soldiers  and  now  about 
to  go  into  a  legal  contest.  It  ought  to  involve  neither 
bitterness  nor  any  need  to  be  other  than  courteous. ' ' 

It  was  difficult  to  resist  words  conveyed  with  the 
manner  which  made  George  Trescot  so  much  liked. 
Anger  would  have  bred  anger.  The  gentleness  of 
the  remonstrance  checked  an  irascible  man.  He 
said: 

"I  spoke  hastily,  Mr.  Trescot." 

"Thank  you;  I  was  sure  you  did." 

Showing  none  of  the  annoyance  he  still  felt,  he 
shook  hands  with  Greyhurst  as  they  parted,  and 
went  out,  feeling  how  hard  it  had  been  not  to  make 
such  a  reply  as  the  words,  and  still  more  the  manner, 
of  the  older  lawyer  invited.  He  resolved  to  be 
equally  cool  and  patient  in  the  trial. 

It  is  strangely  true  that  at  the  moment  his  oppo- 


168  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

nent  was,  for  the  thousandth  time,  regretting  un 
reasonable  anger,  and  promising  himself  also  for  the 
future  a  more  resolute  self-rule.  The  general  once 
remarked  of  him  that  he  was  half  broken,  like  an 
ill-trained  colt.  This  was  said  to  Dudley  over  their 
cards  at  the  little  club  just  before  Averill  fell  ill. 

"It  is  that  strain  of  Indian  blood,"  returned 
Dudley;  "but  it  must  be  far  back.  I  knew  his 
grandmother— a  fine  old  Creole  dame.  They  were 
friends  of  my  people." 

"I  wish,"  said  Averill,  "that,  if  he  is  your  friend, 
you  would  teach  him  to  muzzle  his  temper.  He 
never  sees  Trescot  without  saying  what  would  make 
one  of  us  call  him  out." 

"I  am  not  his  friend,"  said  Dudley.  "The  man 
has  no  friends.  He  has  intimates  and  acquaintances, 
but  he  is  too  thin-skinned  for  friendship.  It  is 
a  pity,  too.  He  is  not  a  bad  fellow,  and  is  enough 
of  a  gentleman  to  be  sorry  after  his  damned  vanity 
has  made  him  say  something  disagreeable." 

In  the  ordered  life  of  a  more  complex  society 
Greyhurst's  readiness  to  take  offense  would  have 
caused  amusement  and  been  checked  in  any  excessive 
manifestation.  In  the  wilder  West,  and  in  St. 
Ann,  where  he  had  lived  since  the  war,  the  indi 
vidualities  of  men  were  less  conventionally  governed. 
He  was  felt  to  be  a  dangerous  man,  and  as  resent 
ments  were  here  apt  to  result  seriously,  he  was  either 
avoided  or  treated  cautiously  by  his  old  comrades 
in  arms. 

Constance,  pleased  to  be  again  alone  with  Tres 
cot,  complained  that  he  was  now  away  from  her 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  169 

all  day.  He  made  clear  that  for  a  week  he  must 
be  at  his  office  or  elsewhere  than  with  her ;  but  that 
after  the  trial  he  would  go  away  with  her  for  a 
fortnight  to  New  Orleans.  And  still,  as  usual,  he 
kept  the  evenings  for  her,  bringing  his  work  home 
where  it  was  incomplete,  and  making  plain  to  her 
the  evidence  in  the  land  case  and  his  line  of  de 
fense. 

Flattered  by  the  appeal  to  her  intelligence,  and 
enjoying  the  novelty  of  the  interest  thus  awa 
kened,  she  followed  his  explanations  with  keen 
delight.  When  the  law  business  was  laid  aside, 
and  while  she  played,  the  tired  man  sat  still  with 
his  pipe,  soothed  and  rested  as  he  watched  her 
face  and  the  house  vibrated  with  the  music  of  the 
great  masters. 

Now  she  turned  from  the  instrument.  "Oh, 
George,  I  wish  there  were  no  business,  and  then  I 
could  have  you  all  the  time/' 

He  had  heard  this  before.  He  thought  it  sweetly 
unreasonable.  Laughing,  he  returned:  "I  should 
soon  cease  to  be  worth  having.  It  is  the  contrasts 
of  life  that  make  for  its  joys.  I  come  home  tired, 
and  here  are  love  and  peace.  I  go  away  refreshed, 
and  you  are  with  me  always.  That  ought  to  satisfy 
you." 

"It  does  not.  I  want  you  to  be  at  the  head  of  your 
profession,  and  I  do  not  want  you  to  be  so  long  and 
so  often  away  from  me.  Is  n't  that  silly,  George? 
And  I  know— I  know  that  I  shall  be  more  and  more 
jealous  as  time  goes  on.  I  should  like  to  Be  compe 
tent  to  fill  your  entire  life." 


170  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"That,  dear,  is  possible  in  one  sense;  in  another, 
it  never  can  be." 

"I  suppose  not.    This  is  Saturday,  is  n't  it?" 

"Yes.  How  the  week  has  gone  by!  To-morrow  I 
shall  be  free  all  day,  and  Tuesday  will  end  the  strain. 
I  have  felt  it  in  my  arm  as  I  do  when  I  am  tired. ' ' 

"I  saw  that  you  were  saving  it,  George.  Will 
this  trial  last  two  days  ? ' ' 

"Yes;  perhaps  three." 

"Cannot  I  be  present?" 

Why  not?  He  anticipated  success  and  was 
pleased  to  think  she  should  be  there,  and  that  he, 
alone,  was  to  try  the  case.  "The  general  will  be 
in  court,  but  not  as  counsel.  You  know  that  I  shall 
call  him  as  a  witness,  which  I  could  not  do  were  he 
in  the  case.  He  is  still  far  from  well." 

Then,  as  usual,  he  read  to  his  wife  what  she  liked 
best,  a  short  tale— this  time  a  story  of  Hawthorne 's. 
She  left  him  with  his  pipe,  saying:  "You  will  not 
work  any  more. ' ' 

"No;  I  am  fully  prepared.    Good  night." 

The  Sundays  were  delightful  to  Constance  because 
of  their  freedom  from  visitors,  and  especially  be 
cause  there  was  no  law  business  partly  to  occupy 
George's  attention. 

In  the  afternoon  of  this  Sunday  he  sat  on  the  back 
porch,  watching  the  sunset  as  seen  across  the  yel 
low  waters  of  the  great  river.  Now  and  then  he 
followed  with  appreciative  joy  the  tall  figure  of 
Constance  as  she  moved  to  and  fro  in  the  garden, 
gathering  the  roses  which  were  still  abundant  in  this 
genial  clime. 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  171 

He  called  to  her :  ''Pick  me  a  red  rose,  Constance.'* 

" There  is  but  one,"  she  called  back  to  him. 

"Then  I  want  it."  He  had  a  woman's  love  of 
flowers;  and  now,  as  she  returned  with  her  basket 
full  of  roses,  the  white-clad  figure  with  the  wide 
straw  hat  made  for  him  a  picture  which  he  found 
altogether  charming.  He  went  in  with  her,  saying 
prettinesses  of  love-speech,  and  then  aided  her  to 
arrange  the  flowers,  being  himself  sensitive  con 
cerning  their  grouping,  and  having  more  refined 
appreciation  of  their  color- values  than  had  his  wife. 
The  great  red  rose  he  had  desired  was  set  in  a  long- 
stemmed  glass  on  his  table. 

"This  is  you,"  he  said,  "an  ambassador  of  love. 
It  seems  to  have  the  conscious  pride  of  beauty.  Oh, 
you  have  it,  too." 

She  flushed  with  pleasure  as  she  cried:  "George, 
how  absurd  you  are!"  Yet  she  liked  it  well.  His 
tendency  to  set  his  love  in  delicacies  of  poetic  ex 
pression  pleased  her.  She  could  show  in  many 
ways  the  strength  and  quality  of  her  affection,  but 
she  had  not  his  gift  of  language.  Her  love  was 
more  passionate  than  his— of  another,  perhaps  not 
of  so  fine  a  fiber. 

After  'their  evening  meal  they  sat  in  the  library, 
with  open  windows,  in  the  still,  warm  air.  He  felt 
better  for  the  quiet  hour,  and  for  the  peace  of  the 
morning  service,  where  her  voice  rose  that  day  in 
the  old  hymns  familiar  to  his  childhood.  She  went 
because  it  pleased  him ;  she  sang  because  he  liked  it. 

"The  Sunday  stillness  is  very  pleasant,"  she  said. 
"You  always  look  rested  on  Sunday  night." 


172  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

''Yes;  it  is  like  an  oasis  in  the  desert— we  pause 
to  rest  and  win  refreshment  for  the  march  of  the 
morning.  It  is  the  one  day  when  it  is  all  evening, 
and  man  ceases  from  labor.  That  is  a  bit  far 
fetched,  but  I  so  feel  it." 

"I  understand,  George;  but  for  me  it  is  of  all 
days  the  best  because  I  have  you,  and  people  stay 
away,  and  there  is  no  business.  Is  it  I  or  is  it  the 
church  that  is  so  restful?" 

He  smiled:  "I  do  not  know,  my  love,  whether 
women  often  feel  what  some  men  do,  that  even  if 
the  hours  of  the  service  did  not  represent  something 
higher,  to  be  merely  taken  for  a  time  out  of  the 
turmoil  and  worries  of  the  week-day  life,  and  into 
a  region  of  higher  thoughts,  would  have  its  peculiar 
value. ' ' 

She  wanted  him  to  say  that  it  was  her  companion 
ship  which  gave  the  day  its  restfulness.  She  would 
have  denied,  even  to  herself,  that  her  husband's  re 
ligion  was,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  a  subject  of  jeal 
ousy.  Any  approach  to  discussion  of  a  matter  so 
dear  to  him  embarrassed  her,  and  she  made  haste  to 
escape,  saying: 

' '  Do  you  really  find  that  long  service  so  restful  ? ' ' 
"Yes;  and  more  than  that— oh,  far  more." 
"I  wonder  if  I  ever  shall.    I  have  not  heard  from 
Susan  since  she  wrote  about  uncle's  being  so  fee 
ble." 

Entirely  aware  of  her  state  of  mind,  he  accepted, 
as  usual,  her  disinclination  to  dwell  longer  on  what 
was  to  him  so  serious  a  part  of  his  daily  life;  and 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  173 

went  on  to  follow  her  lead,  and  to  talk  about  their 
Eastern  home  and  their  letters— she  sitting  the  while 
on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  as  she  liked  to  do. 

"It  is  curious,  Constance,  how  one  changes.  Yes 
terday  I  was  tired  and  not  as  sure  of  my  case  as  I 
know  I  should  have  been.  To-day  I  feel  elate  and 
eager,  and  yet  I  am  not  much  subject  to  moods. 
It  must  be  purely  physical.  I  was  never  ill  in  my 
life  until  I  was  hit." 

Constance  said  quickly,  with  a  half-repressed 
laugh:  "You  must  touch  wood,  George." 

"What  a  strange  old  superstition!"  he  returned, 
smiling.  "I  wonder  how  it  grew  up— where  it  came 
from." 

"But  touch  it— touch  it!" 

"No!"  he  cried,  laughing;  and  then,  seeing  her 
too  earnest  look,  he  tapped  on  the  table. 

"It  is  all  nonsense,  of  course,  but— 

"But  what?" 

"I  do  not  know.  Uncle  has  a  dozen  such  silli 
nesses.  I  never  had— I  never  used  to  have.  I  think 
love  must  nourish  superstition." 

"And  so  now  you  wish  to  be  superstitious  by 
proxy;  and,  dear,  you  have  been  very  quiet  to-day. 
I  should  call  it  absent-minded.  Where  now  is  your 
mind  absent?  Does  anything  worry  you?" 

"Yes.    I  saw  Mrs.  Averill  after  church." 

"Well?" 

"She  said  she  was  very  sorry  that  the  general 
was  not  to  take  an  active  part  in  the  case." 

"And  so  am  I.    Was  that  all?" 


174  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"No;  she  said  he  was  one  of  the  few  people  who 
could  keep  Mr.  Greyhurst  in  order;  and  you  know, 
George,  that  man's  reputation." 

"Yes,  I  know  it.  The  old  lady  was  hardly  as  con 
siderate  as  usual.  And  so  it  is  this  which  troubles 
you.  It  need  not.  We  are  merely  two  lawyers 
engaged  to  try  a  suit.  Of  course  sharp  things  are 
said  at  times,  and  the  same  men  meet  afterward 
and  laugh  over  it.  I  think,  too,  you  know,  dear, 
that  I  am  pretty  good-tempered.  I  can  even  forgive 
you  for  being  jealous  of  my  mistress— the  law." 

"Oh,  but  I  am;  and  I  don't  like  this  man,  George. 
I  should  hate  any  one  who  had  been  rude  to  you." 

"Please  not  to  say  such  things,  Constance,"  he 
returned,  with  an  appealing  hand  on  her  arm. 
"The  man  has  been  ill-mannered,  but,  after  all, 
there  has  hardly  been  material  enough  even  to  sug 
gest  forgiveness.  Keep  that  for  something  larger. 
Let  us  drop  him  and  not  spoil  our  Sunday." 

"Pardon  me,  dear,  dear  George;  I  shall  never, 
never  be  like  you.  You  see  I  am  asking  for  forgive 
ness.  ' ' 

"Hush,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  over  her 
mouth.  ' '  The  word  is  not  in  the  vocabulary  of  love. 
Shall  I  read  to  you?" 

"Yes;  some  short  story.  I  want  to  be  amused. 
Oh,  not  the  magazines."  She  rose  and  settled  her 
self  comfortably  in  an  easy-chair  as  she  spoke. 

To  her  surprise,  he  took  up  the  Bible.  Of  late  he 
had  read  to  her  parts  of  its  greater  poetry,  avoiding 
all  that  was  doctrinal.  Much  of  it  was  new  to  her, 
and  the  splendor  and  passion  and  novelty  of  the  Ian- 


CONSTANCE  TBESCOT  175 

guage  had  found  echoes  of  sympathetic  answer  in 
the  stirred  depths  of  her  awakening  nature.  But 
now  she  said  quickly:  "Not  to-night,  George;  some 
thing  light— a  short  story." 

"Wait  a  little.  Here  shall  be  an  old  tale,  the  best 
short  story  ever  written." 

"What  is  it?"  she  questioned,  suddenly  curious. 

He  made  no  direct  reply,  but  turned  to  the  Book. 

"Once  upon  a  time— 

"Oh,  I  like  that.    Is  that  in  the  Bible?" 

"Once  upon  a  time—  This  is  the  story  of  Joseph 
the  Dreamer." 

"Ah!  go  on,  George."  She  fell  back  in  the  chair, 
luxuriously  at  ease,  and  fanning  herself  as  she  lis 
tened,  for  the  night  was  warm,  and  the  voice  she 
loved  admirably  modulated.  She  knew,  too,  how  he 
would  deal  with  the  story. 

When  he  read  to  her  the  Bible  tales  or  the  Hebrew 
ballads,  it  was  in  a  way  quite  peculiarly  his  own, 
with  thoughtful  comments,  occasional  scenic  back 
grounds,  and  a  word  now  and  then  of  Oriental  dress 
and  customs.  She  closed  her  eyes,  the  better  to 
secure  visions  of  what  he  drew  for  her.  He  made 
her  see  the  parched  hillsides  of  Shechem;  the  wan 
dering  lad,  proud  of  his  colored  coat;  the  brothers 
Reuben  and  Judah,  sharply  characterized;  the  con 
templated  murder ;  the  sale  of  the  terrified  boy ;  the 
long  caravan  march  of  his  masters  over  the  desert 
to  Egypt.  She  felt  the  sad  youth's  grief;  and  then 
shared  his  amazement  at  the  pyramids,  the  turbid 
Nile,  the  funeral  boats  with  many  oarsmen,  the 
crowded  towns,  the  strange  old  civilization,  and  the 


176  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

changeless  red  sunsets.  The  gaps  in  the  Scripture 
narrative  were  well  filled,  as  she  saw,  too,  the  slave- 
market,  and  the  lad  led  away  to  the  house  of  Poti- 
phar.  He  made  real  to  her  the  prison  story  of  the 
dreams  and  of  the  slave-boy's  good  fortune.  Then 
came  the  famine  and  the  visit  of  the  brothers,  with 
their  terror  when,  at  their  evening  halt  in  the  des 
ert,  they  found  in  their  sacks  the  money  and  the 
drinking-cup.  She  saw  the  splendidly  clad  governor 
and  the  returning  brothers,  heard  their  plea  for 
the  old  man,  and  of  his  love  for  the  little  brother, 
the  child  of  his  age,  and  then  their  trembling  words 
concerning  that  other  who  was  dead.  He  read  of 
Joseph's  emotion,  of  his  easy  forgiveness  of  those 
who  had  sent  him  to  captivity,  and  thus  to  high 
fortune.  As  he  read  of  these  simple  pastoral  peo 
ple,  dazzled  by  the  wonders  of  the  teeming  land, 
pyramids,  palace,  and  temple,  and  the  one  high 
way  beside  the  Nile,  and  the  strange  hill-hidden 
graves,  the  descriptions  became  part  of  the  story, 
and  what  she  heard  she  seemed  to  see.  He  ended 
with  the  meeting  of  the  father  and  the  long-lost 
son. 

1  'Thank  you,"  said  Constance.  "How  true  you 
make  it  seem,  how  real !  Oh,  some  day  we  must  go 
to  Egypt." 

"Yes;  and  everywhere.  I  seem  to  see  my  way 
clearly.  In  a  year  or  two  we  will  go  home  to  Boston. 
I  do  not  deceive  myself.  Some  day  there  will  be 
nothing  in  reason  which  I  shall  not  be  able  to  give 
you.  And  you  liked  the  story?" 

"Oh,  much— very  much." 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  177 

He  turned  over  the  pages,  and  then  mechanically 
picked  up  a  glove  she  had  left  on  his  table,  and  laid 
it  in  the  Book,  saying : ' '  We  will  read  this  other  story 
next  time." 

"What  story,  George?" 

"Ruth.     Of  course  you  know  that." 

"Yes,  in  a  way;  but  I  never  read  it." 

Her  ignorance  as  to  certain  things  never  failed 
to  cause  him  an  unpleasing  surprise ;  but  neither  by 
look  nor  by  word  did  he  ever  show  it.  He  said : 
"You  will  like  it,  although  it  is  not  as  skilfully  told, 
as  the  tale  of  Joseph,  and  the  scenery  is  more  sim 
ple." 

"I  am  sure  I  shall  like  it  if  it  has  the  directness 
of  that  story  of  Joseph.  It  is  that  which  makes  it  so 
striking. ' ' 

"You  are  quite  right;  but  I  do  not  think  I  ever 
saw  before  what  it  was  that  gave  this  story  its  pecu 
liar  charm.  There  is  none  of  the  modern  excess  in 
the  analysis  of  motives.  You  seem  to  have  seen  it 
as  I  did  not." 

"Thank  you,"  she  returned.  She  liked,  above  all 
things,  praise,  even  the  mildest,  from  her  husband; 
and,  flushing  a  little,  continued:  "I  did  like  the 
directness  of  it.  The  men  do  this  or  that,  but  you 
are  not  told  that  they  are  good  or  bad— oh,  not 
even  when  they  sell  the  little  brother.  I  liked  an 
other  thing.  Is  n't  there  a  gleam  of  humor  where 
Joseph  says  to  Judah,  'Wot  ye  not  that  such  a  man 
as  I  can  certainly  divine?'  ; 

He  looked  up,  pleased  to  tie  able  to  say:  "Yes, 
that  is  true,  but  often  as  I  have  read  it,  I  never 
12 


178  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

noticed  it.  It  is  very  human.  Any  more  such  wise 
comments,  dear?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  "Was  it  natural  for  Joseph 
to  forgive  his  brothers— and  so  easily,  too?  For  my 
part,  I  should  have  made  them  suffer.  I  could  not 
have  forgotten ;  I  should  have  hated  them  all  through 
those  years." 

* '  Oh,  no ;  I  am  sure  you  would  not. ' ' 

"But,  George,  even  if  he  forgave  them  his  own 
sufferings,  how  could  he  pardon  them  for  the  poor 
old  father's  misery?  No;  I  could  never  have  done 
that."  She  rose  as  she  spoke.  "I  am  glad  I  was 
not  Joseph.  You  will  go  to  bed  early,  George,  and 
get  a  good  rest." 

"Yes;  good  night." 

She  kissed  him  as  he  sat.  As  he  picked  up  a 
book  he  saw  that  she  had  come  back. 

"Well,  dear?" 

She  seemed  to  him,  as  she  stood  bending  over  him, 
like  some  queenly  lily— gracious,  sweet,  and  stately. 
He  said  as  much,  looking  up. 

1 '  I  wanted  to  kiss  you  again.  That  was  only  cere 
monial;  this  is  love." 

She  threw  her  arms  around  him,  kissing  him  pas 
sionately.  "Now,  early;  don't  read  long." 

As  she  turned  away,  the  great  red  rose  she 
had  set  on  his  table  of  a  sudden  fell  to  pieces,  the 
red  petals  dropping  on  the  table  and  on  the  open 
book  he  was  holding.  She  raised  her  hand  in  a 
quick  gesture,  and  cried  out:  "Oh,  the  rose  I  gave 
you!" 

"Well,"  he  said  quickly,  "what  of  it,  Constance?" 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  179 

"Oh,  nothing.  It  startled  me;  I  suppose  I  am 
a  little  nervous.  I  never  used  to  be.  Good  night." 

Sitting  with  the  book  in  his  hand,  he  gave  a  mo 
ment's  thought  to  the  little  incident.  Then  with  a 
smile  he  recalled  the  fact  that  once,  late  at  night 
at  Cambridge,  when  about  to  go  to  bed,  as  he  left 
his  table  a  rose  had  of  a  sudden  fallen  to  pieces. 
He  had  had  a  faint  sense  of  unpleasantness  in  this 
abrupt  ending  of  a  life  of  beauty,  in  the  unexpected 
ness  of  this  sudden  death.  He  remembered  that  it 
had  seemed  to  him  as  if  an  unseen  hand  had  crushed 
it.  He  swept  the  red  petals  off  the  open  book,  and 
said  to  himself:  "I  suppose  any  one  would  feel 
that  way.  It  was  natural.  I  don't  wonder  it  star 
tled  her."  Then  recalling  an  intention,  he  read 
again  a  letter  from  Susan  which  purposely  he  had 
not  shown  to  his  wife. 

She  wrote: 

"Uncle  Rufus  is  very  feeble  since  his  return,  and 
continually  talks  of  the  way  in  which  he  was  re 
ceived  at  St.  Ann.  It  was  like  him  to  be  very  much 
frightened  when  there,  and  very  bold  now  that  he  is 
away.  I  think  you  ought  to  know  that  he  wrote  a 
very  imprudent  and  quite  childish  letter  to  Mr. 
Greyhurst.  He  showed  it  to  me  with  an  air  of  tri 
umph.  He  said  in  it  that  his  age  and  weakness  had 
alone  prevented  him  from  punishing  Mr.  Greyhurst 
for  the  insulting  manner  in  which  he  had  treated 
him,  and  that  Mr.  Greyhurst  had  thus  made  a  com 
promise  which  he  had  intended  (think  of  that, 
George !)  quite  out  of  the  question.  I  wonder  how 


180  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

you  have  had  the  patience  to  stand  him,  and  I  do 
hope  that  this  inconceivable  folly  will  not  add  to 
your  troubles. 

"Do  not  tell  Constance.  She  is  already  quite  too 
needlessly  alarmed,  and  now  it  is  very  necessary  for 
her  to  be  free  from  care." 

"Pretty  bad,  that,"  murmured  Trescot.  After  a 
few  moments'  thought  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Hood: 

"ST.  ANN, 

"Sunday,  P.M.,  October  6. 
"DEAR  MR.  HOOD: 

"We  shall  win,  I  believe.  And  now  I  beg  leave 
to  say  that  it  has  come  to  my  knowledge  that  you 
have  again  gone  by  me,  your  agent,  and  written  to 
Mr.  Greyhurst  a  most  imprudent  letter.  The  gen 
eral  and  I  think  that  the  poverty  of  some  of  the  Bap- 
tiste  heirs,  a  widow  and  three  orphans,  with  the  mis 
fortune  of  their  loss  by  natural  events  of  what  goes 
to  profit  you,  ought  to  induce  you  to  deal  chari 
tably  with  them  and  avoid  for  them  and  you  fur 
ther  litigation.  If,  after  the  trial,  you  still  refuse 
and  are  of  a  mind  to  interfere  in  your  own  affairs 
without  regard  to  your  agent,  I  beg  leave  to  give  up 
the  care  of  your  property.  You  may  consider  this 
as  final  and  not  open  to  discussion. 

"Yours  respectfully, 

"GEORGE  TRESCOT. 
"RuFUS  HOOD,  Esq." 

He  read  the  letter  with  care,  and,  directing  it, 
left  it  on  his  table,  where  it  lay  for  some  days,  for 
gotten  during  the  excitement  of  the  trial. 


XIV 

HE  crowd  in  and  about  the  court-room 
was  so  great  that  it  was  with  difficulty 
Trescot  found  for  Constance  a  seat  at 
the  front.  He  then  entered  within  the 
rail,  spoke  a  word  or  two  to  the  gen 
eral,  shook  hands  with  Greyhurst  and  others,  sat 
down,  and  looked  about  him. 

The  room  was  large  and  full  of  people,  some  of 
whom  he  knew,  and  many,  both  men  and  women,  of 
all  classes,  whom  he  did  not  know,  from  the  town 
and  the  surrounding  country.  He  arranged  his 
papers  and  waited.  A  single  case  preceded  his  own. 
It  was  soon  over,  and  the  crier  called  the  case  of 
Elise  Baptiste  and  others  versus  Rufus  Hood. 
The  judge  said:  "The  case  will  now  proceed." 
Greyhurst,  handsome,  soldierly,  erect,  and  clad  in 
Confederate  gray,  a  rose  in  his  coat,  stood  up  and 
said:  "May  it  please  your  honor,  I  appear  for  the 
plaintiffs."  Trescot  stated  that  he  appeared  for  the 
defendant,  and  regretted  that  circumstances  left 
him  alone  in  the  conduct  of  the  case. 

A  jury  was  impaneled.  To  four  jurors  Greyhurst 
objected.  Trescot  challenged  no  one,  and  contented 
himself  with  asking  each  juror  if  he  could  decide 
the  case  without  fear  or  favor. 

181 


182  CONSTANCE  TKESCOT 

The  jurors  were  in  place  and  a  deepening  still 
ness  fell  upon  an  audience  full  of  interest.  As 
Constance,  eager  and  anxious,  looked  at  the  slight 
figure  and  refined  face  of  her  husband,  he  seemed, 
as  she  thought,  to  be  conscious  of  her  anxiety,  and, 
turning,  smiled  assurance  of  the  confidence  he  felt. 

Greyhurst  opened  the  case.  "May  it  please  your 
honor  and  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury.  It  is  plain 
from  this  great  audience  that  this  is  a  case  which 
excites  the  interest  of  every  one  in  this  community. 
It  should  do  so.  A  writ  of  ejectment  has  been 
served  upon  Kufus  Hood  to  test  his  right  to  lands 
at  the  bend  of  the  river. 

"Mr.  Hood  lays  claim  to  certain— I  might  say  un 
certain—acres,  a  part  of  the  large  estate  known  as 
the  Baptiste  tract,  and  held  under  an  indisputable 
French  title,  for  which  I  shall  produce  the  original 
grant. 

"No  one  can  define  the  limits  of  the  defendant's 
claim.  The  defendant  will  assert  that  it  began 
inland  somewhere  and  extended  to  low  water." 
Where,  he  asked,  did  it  begin— at  what  points  ?  He 
went  on  to  speak  of  the  erosion  of  the  water-front, 
and  of  this  as  the  reason  why  a  man  already  rich 
was  eager  to  put  forward  a  claim  which  had  no 
foundation.  He  was  confident  that  no  credible  evi 
dence  could  be  produced  to  uphold  the  defendant's 
pretension. 

The  direct  evidence  of  ownership  by  the  Bap- 
tistes  would  not  keep  him  long.  It  would  consist 
merely  in  the  production  and  proof  of  the  original 
grant,  and  of  the  wills  required  to  prove  the  present 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  183 

ownership.  It  was  simple.  The  defendant  had  no 
deeds  to  put  in  evidence,  no  proof  of  undisputed  pos 
session,  no  real  knowledge  of  such  bounding  monu 
ments  as  could  be  sworn  to.  He  was  very  cool  and 
impressive  as  he  spoke,  and  dwelt  at  length  upon  the 
unfairness  of  the  defendant's  claim,  characterizing 
it  as  an  attempt  to  inflict  injury  on  impoverished 
and  unfortunate  people. 

The  original  French  grant  was  produced  and  sub 
mitted  to  the  court  and  the  jury.  The  wills  prov 
ing  title  by  descent  were  exhibited,  and  Trescot,  ad 
mitting  their  validity,  offered  no  objections.  All 
the  evidence  for  the  plaintiffs  was  before  the  court, 
although  the  details  occupied  considerable  time,  and 
Greyhurst  sat  down,  stating  that  the  plaintiff  rested 
the  case. 

Trescot  rose,  cast  a  smiling  glance  at  Constance, 
and  went  on  to  state  his  case.  He  had  declined  to 
question  the  validity  of  the  grant  or  the  wills.  He 
accepted  both  for  his  client.  He  wished  neither 
to  delay  nor  to  obstruct.  His  business  was  to  prove 
that  forty  years  ago  the  holder  of  the  Baptiste  grant 
had  sold  to  James  Hood,  the  father  of  his  client, 
a  certain  tract  of  land,  for  which  a  deed  had  been 
given.  He  would  deal  frankly  with  the  matter.  The 
war  and  the  great  cotton  fire  had  destroyed  the  rec 
ords  and  also  the  deeds  and  surveys  once  in  pos 
session  of  Mr.  Hood's  former  agent,  General  Averill. 
Even  the  tax  receipts  wer,e  gone.  He  would  prove, 
however,  that  such  a  deed  had  existed,  that  a  sur 
vey  had  been  made.  He  would  produce  the  sur 
veyor's  notes,  giving  the  bounds,  and  prove  by  his 


184  CONSTANCE  TKESCOT 

widow  his  handwriting;  and  also  would  produce  a 
plot  of  the  survey  appended  to  the  notes. 

This  survey  set  forth  that  from  an  oak  at  one 
time  on  the  bluff  the  line  ran  due  east  sixty-seven 
perches,  more  or  less,  to  a  tree,  a  certain  live-oak; 
thence  north  one  hundred  perches  to  a  third  tree, 
a  walnut ;  and  west  again  sixty-seven  perches  to  an 
oak  on  the  bluff.  A  line  carried  south  between  the 
two  trees  originally  on  the  bluff  completed  the  orig 
inal  bounds  of  the  tract.  Observe,  he  said,  that  this 
left  the  Baptistes  in  possession  of  a  tract  between 
Mr.  Hood's  land  and  the  river,  partly  bluff  and 
partly  the  shore  below. 

He  would  produce  a  witness  who  assisted  the  sur 
veyor,  and  prove  that  the  said  surveyor  had  with 
him  as  a  guide  a  deed  or  paper  denning  the  bounds, 
and  that  the  witness  saw  him  consult  the  said  paper. 
He  would  prove  what  no  doubt  opposing  counsel 
would  admit,— indeed  had  admitted,— the  erosion  of 
the  bluff.  He  would  prove,  past  dispute,  the  present 
existence  of  the  two  trees  marking  the  eastern  line  of 
the  survey,  and  thus  show  that  lines  drawn  due 
westward  from  said  trees  the  number  of  perches 
stated  in  the  survey  would  carry  his  client's  claim 
far  out  beyond  the  present  low-water  mark. 

The  great  storm  and  flood  of  seven  years  before 
had  carried  away  the  projecting  headland,  had 
taken  the  Baptiste  shore,  their  upland  on  the  bluff, 
Mr.  Hood's  front,  and  his  western  boundary  trees. 
All  of  the  Baptiste  land  had  gone  and  a  part  of 
Mr.  Hood's.  He  trusted  that  he  had  made  it  entirely 
clear. 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  185 

Greyhurst  at  first  assumed  an  attitude  of  careless 
inattention,  but  as  Trescot  went  on  he  began  to 
listen  intently,  and  to  take  notes. 

The  fact  of  Averill's  being  no  longer  of  counsel 
in  the  case  left  Trescot  free  to  use  his  evidence  as 
he  could  not  otherwise  have  done.  He  felt  that  the 
affection  and  respect  with  which  the  general  was 
regarded  by  all  men  were  sure  to  give  great  weight 
to  what  he  would  say,  and  enabled  Trescot  to  do 
without  some  other  and  feebler  witnesses.  As  the 
general,  when  called,  took  his  oath,  Greyhurst  said 
to  Colonel  Dudley,  who  sat  beside  him:  "A  fortu 
nate  illness  that,  and  not  very  lasting." 

"You  do  not  mean,  sir,  that  General  Averill— 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Greyhurst,  interrupting  him;  "of 
course  not." 

Dudley  was  silent. 

"Were     you,"     asked     Trescot,     "Mr.     Hood's 

agent?  " 

"Yes,  I  was  from  the  year  1852.    I  am  not  now. 

"Did  you  at  any  time  hold  for  the  defendant  a 
deed  for  land  on  the  bluff  at  the  bend  of  the  river?' 

"I  did— both  a  deed  and  the  survey,  made  by 
one  Hazewell." 

After  further  questions  he  went  on  to  say  that,  to 
the  best  of  his  remembrance,  this  deed  described  the 
holding  as  extending  westward  to  land  retained  by 
the  Baptistes  on  the  bluff.  He  had  paid  taxes  on  the 
land,  but  the  receipts  and  his  own  books  had  been 
burned  during  his  absence  in  the  war.  He  also  bore 
witness  to  the  erosion  of  the  bend. 

Greyhurst  cross-examined  him  with  extreme  cour- 


186  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

tesy  on  his  failure  to  remember  accurately  the  terms 
of  the  deed. 

At  last  he  asked,  "What  taxes  have  been  paid  on 
this  land  by  you  since  the  war?" 

"None;  the  property  was  in  dispute,  and,  as  the 
jury  knows,  taxes  may  run  on  unpaid  for  years 
without  finally  affecting  the  title.  That  means  no 
thing." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Greyhurst;  "but  I  object  to 
the  witness  instructing  the  jury.  It  is  facts,  not 
opinions,  we  want." 

The  general  smiled  and  was  dismissed,  when 
Trescot,  interposing,  said,  "Did  the  Baptistes,  at 
any  time  since  the  war,  pay  taxes?" 

Greyhurst  objected,  but  not  in  time  to  prevent  the 
witness  from  saying,  "They  did  not." 

Mrs.  Hazewell,  the  widow  of  the  surveyor,  and 
now  brought  from  Indiana,  produced  a  book  contain 
ing,  with  other  matters,  a  statement  of  the  boun 
daries  and  area  of  a  survey,  made  by  her  husband, 
of  land  on  the  Baptiste  property  for  James  Hood 
in  October,  1830.  With  it  was  a  neat  plot  of  the 
property,  indicating  certain  trees  as  monuments  at 
the  corners.  There  was  also  a  memorandum  of 
receipt  of  payment  for  the  work.  She  identified  the 
book  and  swore  to  the  handwriting  as  that  of  her 
husband.  So  carefully  had  Trescot  guarded  his  wit 
nesses  that  the  utmost  surprise  was  created  as  the 
case  went  on.  The  book  and  plot  were  submitted  to 
the  jury,  and  although  the  witness  was  sharply  cross- 
examined,  her  evidence  was  not  shaken.  As  the 
young  lawyer  developed  his  case,  and  it  was  seen 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  187 

how  the  dates  as  given  by  the  witnesses  coincided, 
the  elder  members  of  the  bar  began  to  listen  with 
growing  interest,  and  to  exchange  glances  of  sur 
prise,  or  whispers  of  astonishment,  that  Greyhurst 
should  have  ventured  to  try  the  case  at  all. 

Several  persons  swore  to  the  fact  of  the  great 
flood,  and  the  amount  of  erosion  of  the  bluffs ;  and 
a  map  showing  these  changes  was  also  put  in  evi 
dence.  This  was  not  disputed. 

To  the  evident  amazement  of  Greyhurst,  the  next 
witness  called  was  Thomas  Coffin.  After  the  usual 
preliminaries,  Trescot  asked: 

"What  do  you  know  of  the  survey  of  this  tract 
on  the  bluff?" 

*  *  I  helped  my  father.  He  was  a  chain-bearer,  and 
blazed  the  bounds." 

"How  old  were  you  at  that  time?" 

"Well,  it  's  forty  years  ago.  I  am  fifty-eight  now, 
come  February.  I  was  eighteen  years  old.  That 
was  in  October,  1830." 

"How  were  you  employed  in  the  survey?" 

"I  helped;  I  carried  the  ax." 

"Can  you  swear  to  the  trees  marking  the  east 
ward  bound?  Those  which  were  blazed?" 

"I  can." 

"How  do  you  know  them?" 

"Saw  father  blaze  them.  He  made  two  blazes- 
one  on  the  west  side  and  one  on  the  east.  He  always 
did  that.  He  was  a  mighty  careful  man." 

"Did  he  blaze  only  with  the  ax?" 

"No;  he  burned  the  blaze,  too,  with  a  hot  crow 
bar.  I  made  the  fire." 


188  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

Showing  him  the  surveyor's  plot,  Trescot  asked: 

"Do  you  understand  this  map?" 

"  Yes,  sir. " 

"Could  you  say  where  on  it  the  trees  would  be 
you  have  spoken  of— those  on  the  inland  side?  Look 
at  it  carefully ;  take  your  time. ' ' 

After  a  little  hesitation,  during  which  the  stillness 
of  the  crowded  room  deepened,  he  replied,  pointing : 

"Yes,  sir,— there  and  there." 

"Here  are  two  pins;  put  them  in  at  the  places." 
He  did  so,  and  the  plot  of  the  survey  was  submitted 
to  the  jury. 

"How  do  you  know  the  trees  are  those  said  to 
have  been  blazed?" 

"I  cut  them  down  yesterday,  both  of  them,— those 
I  showed  you— me  and  another  man  cut  them  down. 
Mr.  Douglas,  he  was  there.  I  sawed  them  through  and 
found  the  blazes.  But  before  they  was  felled  I  knew 
them  by  the  sinking  in  of  the  bark  over  the  blazes. ' ' 

"Where  are  the  trees?" 

"The  blazed  parts— that  's  the  sections  with  the 
bark  off— is  in  a  wagon  back  of  the  court." 

"I  shall  ask  your  honor,"  said  Trescot,  "to  have 
them  brought  in,  or,  as  they  are  heavy,  that  the  jury 
shall  go  out  and  examine  them." 

Greyhurst  rose  to  object  that  there  was  no  proof 
of  these  being  the  trees  in  question.  Being  over 
ruled,  the  jury  went  out,  inspected  the  sections,  and 
returned  to  their  seats. 

With  this  unlooked-for  evidence  the  interest  be 
came  intense,  while  Constance  watched  steadily  the 
face  of  her  husband. 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  189 

"That  is  all,"  said  Trescot  to  Coffin. 

"One  moment,"  said  Greyhurst.  "I  prefer,  if 
counsel  does  not  object,  to  cross-examine  the  wit 
ness  after  all  the  defendant's  evidence  is  con 
cluded." 

Trescot  said,  "Although  this  is  unusual,  I  shall 
urge  no  objection." 

Peter  Douglas,  the  county  surveyor,  was  next 
called.  He  had  been  present  when  the  trees  were 
felled  and  sawed.  He  had  himself  driven  with  the 
sections  to  the  court-house.  He  swore  that  the  sur 
vey  shown  him  gave  correctly  the  distance  between 
the  two  trees  marking  the  eastern  bound,  and  that 
lines  carried  west  as  required  on  the  survey  shown 
him  would  now  end  far  out  in  the  river. 

Greyhurst 's  cross-questioning  of  the  county  sur 
veyor  was  brief,  and  served  only  to  make  that  offi 
cial  angry  and  to  weaken  the  plaintiffs'  case. 

As  link  on  link  was  added  to  the  chain  of  evidence, 
murmurs  of  surprise  ran  through  the  audience ;  for 
Greyhurst  had  talked  confidently  of  the  utter  weak 
ness  of  the  defendant's  case. 

Trescot  bowed  to  the  judge,  and  then  said:  "I 
have  done.  My  vitnesses  are  in  your  hands,  Mr. 
Greyhurst. ' ' 

Coffin  was  recalled  for  cross-examination.  Grey 
hurst,  unprepared  for  the  ability  with  which  evi 
dence  had  been  collected  and  guarded,  was,  as  usual, 
annoyed  and  even  angered. 

"Your  name  is  Thomas  Coffin?" 

"Yes,  that  's  my  name." 

"What   's  your  business?" 


190  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"I  cut  and  haul  wood;  been  lumbering  'most  all 
my  life." 

"You  must  have  a  good  memory." 

'  *  I  always  did  have. ' ' 

"Then  perhaps  you  remember  who  paid  you  to 
find  trees  you  saw  in  a  big  wood  when  you  were 
a  boy." 

Trescot  was  on  his  feet  in  a  moment.  "I  protest, 
your  honor,  against  the  form  of  the  question — 
against  a  grave  insinuation." 

The  judge  suggested  that  counsel  put  the  ques 
tion  differently. 

Greyhurst  then  asked:  "How  did  you  happen 
to  inform  Mr.  Trescot  as  to  these  very  convenient 
trees?" 

"Because  I  wanted  to." 

"Did  he  on  this  occasion  pay  you,  or  make  any 
1  promise  of  pay,  if  you  would  find  these  much-needed 
trees?" 

"He  did  n't  make  any  promise,  and  he  did  n't 
pay  me." 

Greyhurst  smiled  and  went  on.  ' '  Did  Mr.  Trescot 
send  any  one  to  you  about  these  boundaries  ? ' ' 

"No,  he  didn't." 

"Now,  take  care,"  said  Greyhurst,  advancing.  He 
towered  above  the  small,  lean  woodman.  "You  have 
sworn  to  tell  the  truth  and  the  whole  truth.  Did 
not  Mrs.  Trescot  come  to  your  house  in  the  peanut- 
patch?" 

"She  did." 

"What  day?" 

"I  ain't  sure  of  the  day.    Guess  you  know." 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  191 

"I  want  an  answer— not  insolence.  Was  it  on  the 
sixth  of  June  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  I  reckon  it  was." 

At  this  bringing  of  his  wife  into  the  case  Trescot 
was,  for  the  moment,  annoyed ;  and  then,  catching  a 
look  from  Constance,  was  strangely  set  at  ease.  She 
was  evidently  undisturbed.  In  the  court-room  al 
most  motionless  attention  told  how  increasingly  deep 
was  the  concern  with  which  the  audience  watched 
the  unexpected  developments  of  the  case. 

"Now,  take  care,"  said  Greyhurst.  "What  did 
Mrs.  Trescot  say  to  you?  I  want  all  of  it.  What 
did  she  say  first?" 

"I  won't  tell  you." 

A  faint  stir  in  the  hall  told  of  astonishment. 

Trescot  instantly  understood  that  Coffin  was  nat 
urally  unwilling  to  confess  that  he  had  shot  at  him. 
It  was  this  which  stopped  him. 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Greyhurst,"  he  said.  "I  think 
I  can  assist  your  cross-examination.  I  am  desirous 
that  the  witness  conceal  nothing." 

"I  do  not  ask  your  assistance,  Mr.  Trescot.  When 
I  want  a  junior  counsel  you  shall  have  your  chance. " 

" Very  good,"  returned  Trescot,  and  sat  down. 

"Come,  now,"  said  Greyhurst,  "I  want  an  answer. 
What  did  Mrs.  Trescot  say  to  you,  and  what  did 
you  say  to  her?" 

"I  reckon  you  got  my  answer." 

"Do  you  know  what  will  happen  if  you  do  not 
reply  as  you  are  sworn  to  do?" 

"I  do.     I  '11  go  to  jail." 

"Did  any  one  tell  you  not  to  answer?" 


192  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"Yes,"  and  Coffin  grinned. 

"Indeed!     Who  was  it?" 

"Thomas  Coffin."    The  audience  laughed. 

As  Greyhurst  turned  to  address  the  judge,  Tres- 
cot  rose  again.  "May  I  ask  your  honor  if  the  wit 
ness  is  bound  to  state  what  would  tend  to  criminate 
him  ?  I  know  and  comprehend  his  difficulty.  It  has 
no  direct  connection  with  the  case.  If  the  learned 
counsel  will  ask  my  witness  what  passed  in  relation 
to  the  boundary  trees,  and  leave  Mrs.  Trescot  out  of 
the  matter,  he  will  attain  his  end,  and  I  shall  be 
grateful." 

He  was  most  unwilling  that  his  wife  should  be 
known  to  have  tried  to  secure  him  from  the  anger 
of  Coffin.  He  knew  what  these  people,  or  many  of 
them,  would  think.  He  was  smiling  and  courteous 
as  he  spoke  of  his  wife,  and  a  murmur  of  approba 
tion  was  audible. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Greyhurst,  "Mr.  Trescot  may 
like  to  conduct  both  sides  of  this  case.  May  it  please 
your  honor,  I  accept  this  suggestion,  and  for  the 
present  we  will  leave  Mrs.  Trescot  out  of  the  mat 
ter. 

"Now,  Coffin,  what  did  you  say  to  the  lady  about 
the  bounds  ? ' ' 

Coffin's  face  cleared.  "There  was  n't  a  word  said 
of  those  trees  or  this  claim  until  Mrs.  Trescot  was 
going  away,  and  then  I  told  her  to  tell  Mr.  Trescot 
I  knew  about  them  trees— and  I  did." 

Greyhurst  was  disappointed.  He  said:  "Your 
honor,  when  I  call  witnesses  in  rebuttal  I  shall  deal 
further  with  this  mystery.  That  will  do,  my  man." 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  193 

"I  am  nobody's  man  but  my  own.  Why  don't 
you  ask  me  what  you  said  to  me  about  Mr.  Trescot 
the  week  before  I  told  about  the  trees  ?" 

The  counsel  within  the  rail  smiled;  the  audience 
tittered ;  and  Greyhurst  said  angrily :  ' '  You  may  go, 
do  you  hear?" 

Coffin  turned  to  Trescot.  "Do  you  want  me  any 
more  ? ' ' 

"No;  certainly  not." 

So  long  as  Greyhurst  felt  his  case  to  be  a  good 
one,  his  very  able  mind  acted  well;  but  in  the 
presence  of  impending  defeat  he  became  irritable, 
and  lost  the  tranquillity  which  is  needful  for  quick 
and  perfect  use  of  the  mental  mechanism. 

He  had  been  surprised  by  the  evidence  of  Coffin. 
The  secret  had  been  well  kept,  and  now  he  feared 
that  his  case  was  lost.  He  stated  to  the  court  that 
he  was  through  with  the  defendant's  witnesses,  and 
at  noon  the  court  adjourned  to  meet  at  one-and-a-half 
o'clock. 

No  trial  in  years  had  so  interested  St.  Ann.  It 
was  a  rich  Northern  man  against  poor  Southern 
people  who  were  desperately  battling  for  valuable 
land.  It  involved  well-known  questions  of  technical 
interest;  erosion  of  river-frontage,  lumber  interests, 
and  the  value  of  old  blazes  as  evidence— all  these 
were  familiarly  discussed  as  the  audience  came  out ; 
but  above  all  was  the  excitement  caused  by  Coffin's 
refusal  to  speak  freely  of  what  Mrs.  Trescot  had 
said. 

The  lawyers  saw  which  way  the  case  was  going, 
and  several  of  them  congratulated  Trescot  as  he 

13 


194  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

joined  his  wife.  They  stayed  to  lunch  with  the 
Averills  in  place  of  going  home.  Mrs.  Trescot  was 
in  high  spirits.  Her  husband's  success  satisfied 
her  pride.  The  dramatic  character  of  the  trial,  and, 
above  all,  Coffin's  refusal  to  commit  himself,  and 
his  pleasure  in  baffling  Greyhurst,  interested  and 
amused  her,  so  that  altogether  the  trial  was  to  her 
both  novel  and  entertaining. 

The  general  was  as  well  pleased.  Trescot  had  jus 
tified  his  opinion  both  of  the  young  lawyer's  legal 
mind  and  of  his  readiness  and  coolness.  He  said, 
turning  to  Trescot  as  they  smoked  alone  after  the 
meal: 

"If  I  know  Greyhurst,  he  will  lose  his  head  as  he 
loses  his  case.  He  will  lose  it,  too;  I  kept  my  eye 
on  the  jury ;  but  what  he  will  do  in  summing  up  will 
be  sure  to  be  unpleasant.  You  will  have  no  oppor 
tunity  to  answer,  and  I  am  sorry  for  that.  He 
seems  to  have  the  skill  of  the  devil  in  breeding 
anger.  And  I  very  deeply  regret  that  I  am  not  ac 
tively  in  this  case." 

"I  shall  reply  beforehand  to  his  summing  up, 
general.  I  think  I  know  what  he  will  say.  It  will 
be  a  personal  attack  on  Mr.  Hood's  harshness.  I 
have  my  answer,  as  you  are  aware.  For  the  rest, 
I  am  not  easily  stirred.  What  he  can  do  in  ex 
amining  witnesses  in  rebuttal  I  do  not  know.  How 
can  he  damage  us  ?  If  Coffin  were  the  worst  of  men, 
he  is  so  sustained  by  facts  and  by  the  surveyor 's  evi 
dence  that  to  prove  he  never  before  in  his  life  had 
told  the  truth  would  not  help  the  case." 

"I  do  not  know.    This  suit  means  much  to  Grey- 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  195 

hurst.  He  will  go  to  all  lengths.  He  is  angry.  I 
saw  that.  He  is  a  proud,  over-sensitive  man  who 
makes  no  allowance  for  the  feelings  of  others,  and 
desires  to  have  his  own  attentively  considered.  Now 
he  is  hard  hit,  and,  by  Jove!  do  you  know,  I  think 
he  will  call  Mrs.  Trescot." 

"Oh,  hardly." 

1  i  Yes ;  he  is  puzzled,  and  thinks  there  is  something 
he  may  use  in  what  Coffin  concealed.  I  was  not  at 
all  surprised  when  you  told  me  of  the  attempt  to 
kill  you.  I  had  fully  warned  you.  Of  course  Coffin 
was  not  fool  enough  to  answer  and  confess  an  at 
tempt  to  murder.  His  feud  was  over,  and  Mrs. 
Trescot  had  won  him,  as  she  does  all  of  us.  But 
what  a  strange  business!  I  don't  wonder  the  audi 
ence  was  curious.  Before  we  return,  let  me  once 
more  prepare  you  for  some  such  insolence  from 
Greyhurst  as  will  force  you  into  the  quarrel  he  is 
sure  to  seek  if  he  fail  in  his  case." 

"I  shall  try  to  keep  my  head.  But  Mrs.  Trescot, 
general, — that  may  be  difficult.  She  will  refuse  to 
betray  Coffin." 

"Let  us  hope  Greyhurst  will  not  call  her;  but 
in  any  case  he  will  try  to  be  courteous,— indeed,  he 
is  sure  to  be,  unless  that  infernal  temper  of  his  gets 
the  better  of  him.  You  never  can  calculate  upon 
what  he  will  do.  He  is  as  impulsive  as  a  child,  and 
as  dangerous  as  a  wild  animal." 

This  summary  of  his  antagonist's  character,  and 
his  own  knowledge  of  his  wife's  nature,  left  the 
young  man  more  than  a  little  uneasy. 

When  Greyhurst  left  the  court,  he  went  alone 


196  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

to  a  tavern  near  by  for  his  midday  meal,  and 
drank  just  enough  to  supply  him  with  the  self-con 
fidence  which  alcohol  gives.  He  was,  as  a  rule, 
sober. 

So  far  the  Yankee  lawyer,  as  he  knew,  had  made 
out  an  impregnable  case.  The  chance  for  a  compro 
mise  had  rested  on  the  presumed  weakness  of  the 
defendant's  title.  It  was  now  most  unlikely  that, 
with  a  strong  case,  Hood  would  consent  to  that  which 
he  had  refused  when  his  title  appeared  to  be  weak. 
Greyhurst  reflected  with  more  comfort  that  his 
power  over  juries  had  won  for  him  victories  when 
all  seemed  lost.  In  fact,  he  was  more  an  advocate 
than  a  lawyer.  He  was  less  well  satisfied  when  he 
considered  what  might  be  his  future  in  case  of  fail 
ure.  He  had  debts,  and  some  which  were  embarrass 
ing  ;  but  he  owned  land  beyond  the  bend  which  was 
rising  in  value.  He  was  competent  enough  to  have 
had  more  business,  but  his  insecure  temper  handi 
capped  a  man  who  should  otherwise  have  done  far 
better.  Just  now,  as  he  sat  alone,  the  explanatory 
ghosts  of  past  failures  possessed  the  hour,  and 
haunted  him  as  he  went  moodily  back  to  the  court 
house. 

Trescot,  walking  on  alone  with  his  wife,  said  to 
her:  "I  am  sorry,  Constance;  but  Averill  thinks 
you  will  be  called  as  a  witness.  Greyhurst  is  puz 
zled  and  thinks  there  is  something  which  Coffin  con 
cealed,  and  which  is  of  moment  to  his  case.  He 
is  vexed  and  has  the  hope  that  he  can  show  by  you 
that  some  improper  influence  was  brought  to  bear 
on  Coffin.  It  is  very  absurd ;  but  I  see  that  he  may 


CONSTANCE  TBESCOT  197 

put  you  and  me  in  a  disagreeable  situation.  You 
will  be  called,  I  fear." 

"I  shall  not  like  that";  and  still,  she  admitted 
to  herself  that  the  thought  of  a  contest  with  Grey- 
hurst  strangely  pleased  her. 

It  by  no  means  pleased  her  husband,  who  walked 
on  in  silence,  and  then  at  last  said:  "Try  not  to 
make  this  man  angry.  Be  very  quiet  and  cool." 

"But,  George,"  she  continued,  "I  really  cannot 
betray  Coffin's  confidence.  He  never  meant  me  to 
make  public  that  he  wished— that  he  tried  to  kill 
you;  and  he  was  so  simple  about  it,  and  so  frank! 
And  then,  if  I  speak  out  and  tell  the  whole  story, 
it  will  look  as  if  you  sent  me  because  you  were 
afraid.  Oh,  I  can 't  do  it !" 

"I  hate  it.    But  you  will  have  to  speak  out." 

"Who  on  earth  can  make  me?" 

"The  judge." 

"What  you  call  contempt  of  court?" 

"Yes;  contempt  of  court." 

"George,  they  will  never  do  here  as  they  might 
do  at  home.  Only  do  not  let  that  man  annoy  you. 
You  shall  see  that  I  am  able  to  take  care  of  your 
wife." 

They  were  late  and  he  had  to  leave  her.  He  was 
still  troubled.  Not  so  the  woman.  As  she  made  her 
way  through  the  crowd  she  was  sorry  not  to  have 
been  able  to  dress  for  the  occasion.  A  gentleman, 
recognizing  her,  gave  up  to  her  a  seat  on  the  front 
bench. 


XV 


[HEN    silence   was   proclaimed    to    the 
crowded  room,  Grey  hurst  rose. 

"I  propose,  your  honor,  to  call  two 
witnesses  in  rebuttal  as  to  the  utterly 
worthless  character  of  the  witness  on 
whose  testimony  the  defendant's  case  principally 
rests. ' ' 

Thomas  Andrews  took  the  stand  and  was  sworn 
—a  fat,  brown  man,  uneasy  and  embarrassed.    Grey- 
hurst  asked  the  usual  formal  questions,  and  then: 
"Do  you  know  Thomas  Coffin?" 
"I  do ;  ever  since  we  were  boys. ' ' 
"Where  did  you  know  him?" 
"At  home  in  Tennessee,  and  in  the  lumber-camps, 
and  here,  too." 

"Do  you  know  his  character  for  truth  and  vera 
city  in  the  community  in  which  he  resides?" 
"I  do." 
"What  is  it?" 
"Bad." 

' '  Would  you  believe  him  on  his  oath  ? ' ' 
"No,  I  would  n't." 

"Was    Thomas    Coffin    ever    charged    with    any 
crime  ? ' ' 

Trescot  rose.    "The  question,  as  your  honor  well 
198 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  199 

knows,  is  objectionable;  but,  in  rising  to  say  so,  I 
desire  to  state  that  I  shall  not  urge  any  objection." 
He  sat  down. 

Greyhurst  repeated  his  question. 

"Yes;  he  killed  a  man.  He  was  arrested,  but  he 
got  away  from  the  sheriff." 

Meanwhile,  Trescot  used  the  moments  of  this 
damaging  statement  to  exchange  a  few  words  with 
Coffin. 

"That  will  do,"  said  Greyhurst. 

"One  moment,"  said  Trescot.  "I  wish  to  ask  a 
question.  Now,  Mr.  Andrews,  do  you  know  why 
Coffin  killed  the  man?" 

He  hesitated. 

"Take  your  time;  but  remember  that  you  are  on 
your  oath  to  tell  the  truth." 

"Well,  they  said  he  shot  Tom's  brother." 

"Did  he  shoot  Tom's  brother?" 

"They  said  so— I  was  n't  there." 

"Ah,  was  that  so?  Were  you  ever  in  the  Con 
federate  service?" 

"I  was." 

"How  long?" 

"About  three  months." 

"You  were  wounded,  were  you  not?" 

"Yes,  in  the  leg;  I  was  took  prisoner.  It  was  on 
the  skirmish-line.  It  was  in  a  wood;  we  were  too 
far  out." 

The  man  began  to  be  uneasy,  anxious  to  explain. 

"Were  you  not  deserting?" 

Greyhurst  protested. 

"I  withdraw  the  question,"  said  Trescot,  satisfied, 


200  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

—for  the  man's  face  answered  it  as  he  said:  "Damn 
you!  no,  I  was  n't." 

"That  will  do,"  said  Treseot. 

"And  now,"  said  Grey  hurst,  "I  must  very  reluc 
tantly,  as  a  matter  of  simple  duty,  ask  Mrs.  Treseot 
to  take  the  stand." 

There  was  a  stir  of  fresh  interest  and  expectant 
attention  in  the  crowded  room.  People  spoke  to 
their  neighbors,  and  then  there  was  entire  quiet 
as,  in  reply  to  the  usual  summons,  Constance 
went  smiling  past  her  husband.  The  room  was 
hot  and  close,  and  she  left  her  hat  on  the  seat. 
As  she  stood  in  the  witness-box — erect,  a  little  on 
guard,  slightly  flushed — a  faint  murmur  which 
spoke  of  admiration  was  heard  throughout  the 
room. 

She  hesitated  a  little  as  she  took  the  Bible  and 
heard  the  usual  formula  of  the  oath.  Then  she 
answered,  "I  do." 

"Your  name  is  Mrs.  Treseot?" 

"Yes;  Constance  Treseot." 

"You  live  in  St.  Ann?" 

"I  do." 

* '  You  were,  I  believe,  on  the  sixth  of  June,  at  the 
cabin  of  Thomas  Coffin?" 

"I  was." 

"Why  did  you  go  there?" 

"An  errand  of  my  own." 

"Tell  the  court  what  first  passed  on  that  occasion 
between  you  and  Coffin." 

'  *  I  asked  for  a  drink  of  water.  I  said  it  was  very 
good  water." 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  201 

"Pardon  me,  madam;  but  we  will  omit  these 
trifles.  What  else  was  said  ? ' ' 

"I  told  Mr.  Coffin  something,  and  he  told  me 
something,  neither  of  which  I  am  at  liberty  to  state. ' ' 

"I  ask  again,  What  passed  between  you  on  this 
occasion  ? ' ' 

"I  decline  to  answer." 

"I  insist  that  you  tell  the  court  and  jury." 

"I  will  not.  I  cannot  betray  what,  trusting  my 
honor  and  good  feeling,  Coffin  said  to  me.  The 
latter  part  of  what  passed  I  shall  be  glad  to  re 
late." 

"But,"  said  Greyhurst,  "you  appear  to  forget 
that  this  is  a  court  of  justice ;  you  have  taken  an 
oath;  you  have  no  choice,— nor,  indeed,  have  I 
any." 

"I  very  much  regret  that  I  cannot  answer,"  she 
returned  very  quietly. 

"I  repeat  my  question." 

She  was  silent,  facing  the  lawyer,  tranquil,  firm, 
faintly  smiling  at  his  evident  annoyance. 

* '  I  must  most  reluctantly  ask  your  honor  to  direct 
the  witness  to  answer,"  said  Greyhurst. 

The  judge  said:  "I  fear,  Mrs.  Trescot,  that  you 
must  reply  to  the  question  put  by  counsel." 

"With  the  utmost  respect  for  the  court,  I  decline 
to  answer.  I  regret,  your  honor,  that  it  is  impos 
sible." 

The  judge  sat  up,  evidently  troubled,  as  Grey 
hurst  turned  to  him,  saying: 

"The  matter  is  in  the  hands  of  the  court." 

Trescot  watched  the  unmoved  woman,  himself  a 


202  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

little  anxious,  but  with  proud  pleasure  in  the  cour 
age  and  quiet  good-breeding  she  had  shown. 

Then,  to  the  amazement  of  every  one,  a  voice 
broke  the  silence,  and  Coffin,  seated  near  by,  said: 

11  Don't  you  mind  me,  Mrs.  Trescot;  just  you  tell; 
I  don't  care." 

"Thank  you."  Turning  to  Greyhurst,  she  said: 
"The  real  chivalry  and  the  good  feeling  of  at  least 
one  man  for  a  woman  in  an  awkward  situation  set 
me  free.  Your  honor  will,  I  trust,  pardon  me.  I 
will  now  answer  Mr.  Greyhurst." 

The  judge  bowed. 

"Well,"  said  Greyhurst,  flushing  and  ill  pleased, 
"what  passed  between  you  and  Coffin?" 

"To  explain  clearly  what  passed  I  must  tell  the 
entire  story,  and  I  hope  I  may  be  allowed  to  do  so. ' ' 
She  paused  for  a  moment;  Greyhurst  moved  rest 
lessly  and  seemed  about  to  interfere,  but  dreading 
the  effect  of  objection  at  this  time,  remained  silent 
as  she  went  on: 

"In  the  midst  of  a  storm  on  the  night  of  June 
5th,  while  I  had  left  our  porch  for  a  wrap,  a  rifle 
shot  broke  a  pane  of  glass  over  my  husband's  head. 
The  lightning  was  incessant,  and  he  saw  the  man 
who  fired.  He  ran  after  him,  and  was  so  near  that 
he  saw  him  clearly,  and  also  saw  that  he  was  lame 
and  ran  with  difficulty.  Then  my  husband  fell, 
and  the  man  got  away ;  but  he  was  sure  it  was  Coffin. 
When  my  husband  came  back,  he  told  me  all  about 
it,  and  who  the  man  was.  I  had  heard  the  shot,  of 
course. 

"I  was  sure  it  would  happen  again.    I  could  not 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  203 

sleep  that  night.  I  was  most  unhappy.  I  did  not 
tell  my  husband  what  I  meant  to  do.  I  had  to  do 
it.  I  went  next  day  to  see  the  man.  I  went  alone. 
I  said  to  him  bluntly:  'Why  did  you  try  to  kill  my 
husband?'  You  see,  Mr.  Greyhurst,  he  was  cleaning 
his  rifle,  and  I  knew  what  that  meant.  He  did  not 
try  to  lie  to  me,  but  replied :  'Because  Mr.  Greyhurst 
told  me  your  husband  was  going  to  turn  me  out  of 
my  home— the  whole  of  us,  like  dogs.'  ! 

"It  was  a  lie,"  said  Greyhurst. 

Trescot  was  up  instantly.  "You  are  discourte 
ous,  sir.  You  asked  for  the  whole  truth,  and  are 
getting  it,  and  to  spare."  He  sat  down;  but  as 
Greyhurst  turned  with  a  sharp  reply  on  his  lips, 
Mrs.  Trescot  said  quietly:  "I  did  not  understand 
Mr.  Greyhurst  as  asserting  me  to  be  untruthful." 

"Certainly  not,"  he  returned. 

"Shall  I  go  on?"  she  asked  in  her  gentlest  voice. 

"Yes,  if  you  please." 

"When  Coffin  said  he  had  been  told  that  he  was 
to  have  no  mercy  and  be  driven  out  at  once,  I  told 
him  that  it  was  not  true." 

"And  was  it  not?"  asked  Greyhurst.  "Can  you 
say  that?" 

"I  have  said  it  was  not.  I  told  him  nothing  was 
settled.  I  then  said  that  I  personally  would  make 
him  an  offer,  either  of  land  on  the  bend  back  of  the 
bluff,  if  we  won  the  suit,  or  of  money.  I  said  my 
husband  never  would  consent  to  drive  these  poor 
people  out  of  their  homes.  They  had  been  soldiers 
as  he  had  been,  and  were  to  be  helped,  not  robbed. 

"One  moment /'  said  Greyhurst.     "I  think  you 


204  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

said  Mr.  Treseot  authorized  you  to  make  this  state 
ment.  ' ' 

It  was  a  common  and  feeble  device,  which  always 
fails  with  a  good  witness. 

"Keep  cool,"  said  Averill  to  Treseot.  "I  told 
you  he  would  lose  his  wits  with  his  case." 

"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Treseot;  "I  did  not  say  so." 

"Well,  perhaps  not." 

Again  Averill  laid  a  restraining  touch  on  Tres 
eot 's  arm. 

"At  all  events,"  said  Greyhurst,  bitterly,  "it 
should  have  been  a  man's  errand.  Pray,  go  on." 

"I  meant  to  undeceive  him.  I  did.  I  made  clear 
to  him  that  in  any  case  he  should  be  paid  to  move. 
I  asked  him  to  take  care  of  my  garden.  I  pay  him 
for  it.  I  desired  to  save  my  husband's  life.  A 
cruel  slander  had  put  it  in  peril.  I  made  a  friend 
of  an  enemy." 

"By  George,  that  's  first-rate!"  said  a  voice  in 
the  crowd.  Silence  was  ordered,  and  there  was  need 
of  the  order. 

Turning  to  the  jury,  Greyhurst  spoke  again  in 
a  voice  of  ill-governed  anger:  "A  woman  may  be 
forgiven  for  the  things  this  lady  has  said  of  me. 
I  shall  look  elsewhere  for  an  explanation.  I  have 
for  her  no  answer.  She,  at  least,  is  irresponsible. 
May  I  venture  to  ask,  madam,  if,  as  Mr.  Hood's  or 
Mr.  Treseot 's  envoy,  you  visited  the  cabin  of  Coffin 
at  any  other  time?" 

"No;  I  did  not." 

"But  I  had  the  pleasure  to  meet  you." 

"That  is  true.  I  had  been  to  see  Wilson,  one  of 
the  squatters." 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  205 

"Coffin's  brother-in-law.'7 

"Yes;  I  meant  to  say  so— a  dying  man  in  need 
of  luxuries,  and  even  of  good  food.  My  husband 
and  I  had  helped  him. ' ' 

"You  seem  to  have  cultivated  the  good-will  of  the 
family." 

"I  have;  I  neglected  to  say  that,  without  the  least 
prompting  on  my  part,  Coffin  told  me  that  he  could 
give  Mr.  Trescot  information  in  regard  to  the  blazed 
trees  on  the  corners  of  Mr.  Hood's  land." 

"You  appear  to  have  made  good  use  of  your  op 
portunities,  madam,"  said  Greyhurst. 

"I  have;  and  I  assure  you  I  enjoyed  it;  and 
above  all,  when,  as  I  was  leaving,  Coffin  said- 
She  paused  long  enough  for  Greyhurst  to  say : 

"You  seem  to  hesitate,  madam ;  we  want  the  whole 
of  this  very  remarkable  story." 

"Oh,  with  pleasure.  Coffin  assured  me  that  he 
was,  as  he  said,  right  glad  he  had  n't  killed  my  hus 
band,  and  was  a  good  bit  ashamed.  That  was  about 
the  shooting.  I  understood  him  to  mean  that  he 
was  ashamed  to  have  missed  him."  This  was  so 
wholly  in  character  that  court  and  audience  broke 
into  laughter. 

Greyhurst 's  face  flushed,  the  color  deepening  on 
his  dark  skin.  Averill  sat  watchful  and  uneasy. 
She  had  said  too  much. 

"That  is  all,  madam.  Thank  you,"  said  Grey 
hurst. 

Trescot  said  simply:  "I  have  a  few  questions  to 
ask  the  witness.  I  regret  to  be  obliged  to  ask  them, 
but  the  circumstances  demand  it."  The  bar  and 
the  audience  were  delighted. 


206  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

Constance  turned  to  him,  much  amused. 

"Did  your  husband  know  of  your  intention  to 
intervene  between  him  and  Coffin?" 

"No,  he  did  not." 

"Did  he  express  himself  in  regard  to  it  when  he 
heard  of  it?" 

"Yes;  he  objected;  he  was  just  a  little  cross." 

The  court  smiled,  and  the  crowd  laughed. 

"That  is  all,  "said  Trescot. 

This  closed  the  evidence.  It  now  became  the  duty 
of  the  defendant  to  sum  up  for  the  defense.  The 
judge  said: 

"The  evidence  has  been  so  brief  that  the  court 
will  sit  out  the  case,  unless  counsel  are  so  lengthy 
as  to  forbid  it." 

Trescot  rose.  "May  it  please  your  honor,  and 
you,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I  shall  be  brief. 

* '  In  putting  before  you  in  its  fullness  a  connected 
statement  of  what  you  have  heard  from  the  wit 
nesses,  it  may  be  wise,  and  certainly  is  of  interest,  to 
sketch  for  you  the  history  of  this  suit. 

"James  Hood,  my  client's  father,  bought  in  1830 
a  tract  of  land  which  lay  within  the  vast  grant  held 
so  long  by  the  Baptiste  family.  Why  he  bought  it  I 
do  not  know;  it  had  very  little  value.  The  Bap- 
tistes  reserved  several  hundred  feet  from  Mr.  Hood's 
western  line  on  the  bluff,  and,  of  course,  the  river 
front,  perhaps  anticipating  its  future  usefulness. 
The  years  go  on;  no  one  disputes  Mr.  Hood's  title. 
Some  seven  years  ago  comes  the  flood,  and  Mr.  Hood 
finds  he  has  lost  land,  but  has  acquired  a  water 
front.  The  riparian  rights  thus  strangely  won  soon 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  207 

become  so  very  valuable  that  some  one  advises  the 
unfortunate  people  whose  land  has  gone  down  to  the 
Gulf— some  one  advises  them,  I  say,  to  see  what 
can  be  made  out  of  an  unlucky  situation.  Many 
Western  decisions  have  made  it  clear  beyond  dis 
pute  that  the  man  whose  land  the  great  river  took 
has  no  remedy  at  law,  except,  perhaps,— and  your 
honor  will  pardon  the  jest,— to  sue  the  Gulf  of  Mex 
ico  as  the  receiver  of  stolen  goods.  But  really  this 
claim  of  the  plaintiffs  has  its  humorous  aspects. 

''Then  this  some  one— I  do  not  know  who— may 
have  suggested  an  inquiry  into  the  possibility  of 
disproving  my  client's  title.  It  is  not,  as  I  go  on,  a 
very  pleasant  history.  The  war  had  done  its  sad 
work— almost  every  evidence  of  title  was  lost.  The 
surveyor  was  long  dead,  and  his  people  scattered. 
Apparently  no  bounds  could  be  proved.  Thus  en 
couraged,  a  suit  for  ejectment  is  brought,  and  very 
soon  the  reason  for  it  appears  when  the  plaintiffs 
seek  for  a  compromise — a  division  of  the  water 
front.  This  case  has  gone  on  through  the  hands  of 
three  sets  of  counsel.  If  Mr.  Hood  owns  the  land  on 
the  bluff  he  now  owns  the  river- front.  If  he  does  not 
he  is  practically  a  squatter,  and  should  have  that 
sympathy  which  the  learned  counsel  for  the  plain 
tiffs  asks  for  those  who  are  on  land  they  do  not 
own. ' ' 

The  court  smiled,  and  there  was  much  laughter. 

"It  is  only  too  plain  that  belief  in  the  presumed 
weakness  of  my  client's  claim  suggested  the  suit  to 
eject,  in  the  hope  that  fear  of  total  loss  would  force 
my  client  to  offer  or  accept  a  compromise." 


208  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

Greyhurst  rose.  "Does  the  learned  counsel  mean 
that  I  was  concerned  in  advising  a  suit  with  this  sole 
purpose  in  view?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Trescot.  "The  case  was  not  of 
your  creation.  I  do  not  know  who  devised  that 
which  was  clearly  what  I  prefer  not  to  characterize. ' ' 

"It  is  just  as  well  that  you  should  explain,  and 
the  explanation  comes  none  too  soon,"  said  Grey- 
hurst.  "You  may  think  your  explanation  satisfac 
tory.  I  do  not." 

Trescot  made  no  reply. 

"As  the  case  stands,  you,  gentlemen  of  the  jury, 
have  been  led  to  think,  to  believe,  if  that  were  pos 
sible,  that  it  is  we  who  are  the  plaintiffs,  we  who 
complain;  we,  and  not  an  act  of  nature,  who  are 
the  oppressors. 

"May  I  further  tax  your  patience  before  return 
ing  to  the  essential  facts?  So  much  has  been  said 
that  is  personal,  both  in  and  out  of  the  court,  that 
I  shall  ask  leave  to  say  a  few  words  not  in  immediate 
relation  to  the  case.  I  shall  be  brief. 

"I  came  hither  as  the  agent  and  legal  adviser  of 
Mr.  Hood.  I  found  myself,  a  Northern  soldier,  in 
a  community  naturally  aggrieved  and  hostile.  I 
have  sought  honestly  to  give  no  offense,  and  I  have 
been  able  to  induce  my  client  to  deal  most  gener 
ously  with  his  many  debtors,  and  to  make  kindly 
and  even  liberal  provision  for  the  squatters  who, 
long  undisturbed,  had  come  to  believe  they  had  a 
right  to  their  holdings.  No  single  debtor  of  Mr. 
Hood's  will,  before  long,  have  the  slightest  cause 
for  complaint.  Some  attempt  has  been  made  to 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  209 

affect  public  sentiment  by  word  of  mouth,  as  you 
have  heard,  and  I  regret  to  say  in  print  also,  and 
this,  too,  while  arrangements  were  being  made  to 
deal  justly  and  even  generously.  I  cannot  believe 
that  such  efforts  have  had  any  influence  on  this  jury. 
So  fully  do  I— so  fully  did  I  trust  the  honor  and 
justice  of  the  men  I  have  learned  to  like  in  this  city 
that,  as  you  know,  I  made  no  objection  to  any  jury 
man.  My  learned  friend  was  less  easily  pleased." 

As  he  paused,  taking  up  a  paper,  Greyhurst  rose. 

1  'Do  I  understand  your  charges  to  allude  in  any 
way  to  me  ? " 

"I  do,"  said  Trescot;  "and  I  refer  the  counsel 
to  Coffin 's  evidence  as  to  what  you  said  to  him. ' ' 

*  *  The  man  who  said  so  lies,  and  the  man  who  now 
says  so  lies. ' ' 

The  judge  at  once  called  Greyhurst  to  order,  and 
he  sat  down,  saying:  "Well,  we  shall  see." 

Trescot  went  on,  making  no  allusion  to  the  insult. 
He  stated,  with  admirable  clearness,  the  conclusions 
to  be  drawn  from  the  evidence  of  the  survey  and  the 
plan  of  the  river  as  it  had  been  and  as  it  had  come 
to  be.  With  singular  power  of  lucid  statement  he 
dealt  with  the  evidence,  admitting  the  validity  of 
the  old  French  grant  as  an  essential  to  his  own 
case.  He  emphasized  the  fact  that  no  one  had 
doubted  his  client's  title  until  the  erosion  of  the 
river-frontage  made  it  valuable.  He  wound  up  by 
an  appeal  for  simple  justice,  and  gathering  his 
papers  together,  sat  down. 

It  was  now  so  late  that  the  judge  asked  Greyhurst 
how  long  a  time  he  would  require.  Upon  his  saying 

14 


210  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

he  could  not  tell,  the  court  adjourned  to  meet  at 
ten  the  next  day. 

Greyhurst  walked  sullenly  away  from  the  group 
of  older  lawyers  who  gathered  with  warm  praise 
about  Trescot.  Mrs.  Trescot  having  left  to  attend  to 
some  household  matters,  Averill  said  to  Trescot  as 
they  left  the  court:  "That  fool  called  you  a  liar." 

"Yes,  he  said  that  I  lied.  I  presume  he  meant 
Coffin  also." 

"I  think,  Trescot,  that  you  will  have  to  ask  him 
what  he  meant,  or  invite  him  to  withdraw  his 
words. ' ' 

"No,  I  shall  not,  general." 

"But,  my  dear  Trescot,  your  position  is  really  un 
tenable,  or  at  least  it  is  so  here.  To  accept  a  charge 
of  lying  and  to  do  nothing !  You  would  lose  caste— 
oh,  utterly." 

"Then  I  must  risk  that.  To  ask  him  would  mean 
an  acceptance  of  added  insult  or  a  duel.  My  own 
beliefs,  and  I  may  say  the  peace-making  effect  of 
a  rebel  bullet,  make  a  duel  impossible."  He 
laughed  as  he  added:  "I  might  hit  a  house  with 
my  left  hand,  but,  my  dear  general,  I  come  from 
a  community  where  a  duel  is  as  absurd  as  to  you, 
I  dare  say,  such  a  state  of  feeling  may  be.  I  am 
much  of  George  Washington's  opinion  as  concerns 
the  matter." 

"I  know,"  said  Averill;  "but  he  never  lived  in 
St.  Ann.  Do  you  go  armed?" 

"I?    No— of  course  not." 

"You  had  better." 

Trescot  laughed.    "My  best  weapon  among  people 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  211 

like  yours  is  the  fact,  well  known  to  Greyhurst  and 
many,  that  I  do  not  carry  arms,  and  am  crippled. 
Don't  worry,  general;  the  man  will  quiet  down, 
and  I  shall  be  careful." 

"You  do  not  know  Greyhurst." 

He  was  touched  by  the  old  man's  kindness,  and, 
having  no  malice  toward  any  one,  went  away  elated 
with  the  certainty  of  success. 

When,  in  the  morning,  Constance  and  he  talked 
over  the  trial,  she  said:  "I  do  not  want  to  hear  or 
see  that  man  again,  George.  When  will  it  be  over  ? ' ' 

"Greyhurst  must  close.  Then  the  judge  will  sum 
up;  but  how  long  the  jury  may  be  out  I  do  not 
know.  I  will  send  you  word,  as  I  may  be  detained." 

"You  will  not  forget  me?" 

"Do  I  ever  forget  you,  Constance?" 

"Never;  but  I  shall  be  so  very  uneasy." 


XVI 

N  the  next  morning  some  intervening 
court  business  made  it  late  before  the 
case  was  called  for  continuance.  The 
crowd  was  still  greater  when  Grey- 
hurst,  as  the  plaintiffs '  counsel,  rose  to 
sum  up,  with  some  return  of  his  usual  self-confidence. 
"May  it  please  your  honor,  and  you,  gentlemen 
of  the  jury,  I  represent  here  to-day  the  cause  of  the 
widow  and  orphans  of  a  Confederate  soldier.  The 
claimant  is  rich — indeed,  far  beyond  our  modest 
conceptions  of  wealth.  His  agent  is  a  young  man 
who  served  in  the  war  which  has  left  us  ruined, 
oppressed,  and  insulted.  Until  just  in  time  for  ef 
fect  in  this  trial,  we  heard  very  little  of  certain 
much- vaunted  generous  intentions.  Let  us  hope  that 
they  were  more  honest  than  Mr.  Hood's  former  pol 
icy  would  seem  to  make  credible..  The  opposing 
counsel  has  seen  fit  to  speak  of  his  personal  relation 
to  this  case.  In  his  use  of  witnesses  he  has  made 
implications  in  regard  to  me  which  justify  me  in 
saying  that  I  personally,  at  least,  can  afford  to  smile 
at  slander  which  represents  me  as  lying,  and  which 
leaves  the  statement  for  use  in  the  safe  hands  of  a 
female  and  a  vagabond." 

"My  heavens,  general!"  said  Trescot,  "I  cannot 
212 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  213 

stand  that."  He  rose  at  once.  "Stop!"  he  said. 
"Sir,  whatever  statements  have  been  made,— and 
you  have  utterly  misrepresented  them,— I  alone  am 
responsible.  No  gentleman  could  have  said  what 
you  have  just  now  permitted  yourself  to  say ! ' ' 

Greyhurst  laughed:  "The  shaft  has  found  its 
mark.  I  had  heard,  sir,  that  in  the  sense  in  which 
Southern  gentlemen  use  the  phrase,  you  did  not 
consider  yourself  responsible." 

Trescot,  still  on  his  feet,  said  quietly,  ' '  I  have  said 
that  I  am  responsible." 

The  general  looked  from  the  one  man  to  the  other, 
uneasy  and  amazed  that  Trescot  had  been  badgered 
into  assuming  at  last  a  position  so  opposed  to  his 
principles. 

Greyhurst  returned  sharply,  "Well,  I  am  relieved 
to  hear  it.  It  was  unexpected. ' '  And  then,  as  Tres 
cot  resumed  his  seat,  he  turned  to  the  jury,  saying : 
"And  now  for  this  boasted  evidence." 

As  he  went  on,  Trescot  sat  still,  conscious  of  hav 
ing  been  goaded  by  insult  to  commit  himself  to  what 
he  knew  to  be  wrong.  As  he  sat,  he  thought  a  mo 
ment  of  Alexander  Hamilton,  whom  he  greatly  ad 
mired.  Then  he  said  to  himself:  "When  the  evil 
takes  shape  I  will  deal  with  it, ' '  and  began  again  to 
listen  to  his  antagonist.  Greyhurst  dwelt  long  on  the 
untrustworthy  character  of  the  evidence  given  by 
Coffin,— on  his  convincing  reasons  for  offering  as 
sistance  to  the  defendant  with  utter  disregard  of  the 
truth.  Trescot,  again  self-controlled,  and  listening 
quietly,  felt  at  ease  as  to  his  case.  His  opponent's 
criticisms  left  his  witnesses'  testimony  uninjured. 


214  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

What  doubt  was  possible  was  thrown  on  the  absence 
of  deeds,  on  the  slight  value  of  the  surveyor's  notes 
so  providentially  preserved,  on  the  failure  to  pay 
taxes.  In  fact,  as  an  old  lawyer  whispered  to  Tres- 
cot,  "he  has  no  case  at  all,  and  had  better  throw  it 
up."  He  finished  with  a  passionate  appeal  to  the 
jury  to  see  the  equity  of  the  situation — where  nat 
ural  causes  had  swept  away  land  and  given  to  the 
greed  of  avarice  a  motive  to  add  one  more  cause  of 
poverty  to  the  ruin  of  an  old  and  honored  family. 

A  murmur  of  applause  in  the  audience  assured 
him,  as  he  sat  down,  that  he  must  have  equally  af 
fected  the  jury. 

The  court  adjourned  to  meet  for  the  judge's 
charge  in  the  afternoon. 

The  case  was  of  unusual  importance,  and  the 
charge  of  the  judge  to  the  jury  was  of  great  length. 
He  gave  the  usual  caution  as  to  the  weight  and 
consideration  to  be  given  to  the  facts  as  stated,  and 
as  to  the  credibility  of  witnesses.  He  charged  the 
jury  that  if  these  and  the  extraordinary  discovery 
and  production  of  the  blazes,  and  the  description 
of  the  land,  were  proved  to  their  satisfaction,  they 
must  of  need  find  for  the  defendant.  He  urged  that 
the  unfortunate  personalities  of  the  trial  be  set  aside, 
and  that,  with  no  regard  to  the  sectional  prejudices 
which,  with  as  little  relation,  had  been  brought  for 
ward,  they  should  decide  as  true  men. 

Besides  dealing  with  the  evidence,  he  had  felt 
obliged  to  make  entirely  clear  the  decisions  as  to  the 
changes  in  ownership  of  riparian  rights  made  by 
these  frequent  erosive  alterations  in  the  courses  of 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  215 

the  great  Western  rivers.  The  lamps  around  the 
walls  of  the  court-room  were  lighted  before  the 
judge  had  finished,  and  it  was  late  when  he  gave 
the  case  to  the  jury  and  retired  to  await  their 

verdict. 

No  one  moved.  The  interest  the  case  excited  was 
such  as  to  keep  people  in  their  seats,  although  the 
room  was  hot  and  the  air  oppressive.  Within  the 
rail,  where  the  lawyers  sat,  there  was  equal  interest, 
and  a  feeling,  expressed  in  undertones,  that  the 
words  which  had  passed  between  counsel  must  soon 
or  late  result  seriously. 

During  the  hour  in  which  men  waited  to  hear  the 
verdict  Greyhurst  sat  still.  He  had  scarce  a  hope 
of  success,  and  to  fail  would  be  for  him  a  grave 
calamity.  He  reflected  on  this,  or  considered  plans 
for  future  litigation,  as  he  sat  still;  or,  seeing  the 
hands  of  the  clock  pass  the  hour,  began  to  believe 
in  a  disagreement  of  the  jury.  But  ever  at  times 
his  face,  which  he  had  never  learned  to  control, 
changed,  as,  with  his  eyes  half  closed,  he  frowned 
and  gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair.  He  thought 
of  the  way  in  which  he  had  been  fooled  by  Coffin 
and  baffled  by  this  frail-looking  young  lawyer.  He 
recalled  the  amused  faces  of  the  listening  counsel, 
the  exasperating  quiet  and  gentle  manners  of  Tres- 
cot.  ''Damn  him!"  Now  and  again  a  flash  of 
anger  lit  his  face  with  passion,  as  the  lightning 
illuminates  for  a  second  the  darkness  of  a  stormy 
night. 

Meanwhile,  Trescot,  confident  and  happy,  chatted 
with  Averill  or  others. 


216  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

Time  ran  on,  and  it  was  now  late.  At  the  close 
of  an  hour  the  judge,  returning  to  his  seat,  recalled 
the  jury.  ''It  is  plain,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "that 
you  may  require  some  time  to  reach  a  conclusion. 
I  shall  remain  in  my  room  until  eight  o  'clock  to  hear 
from  you.  I  shall  then  leave.  If,  after  that  hour, 
you  are  of  one  mind  and  will  return  to  the  clerk  of 
the  court  a  written  verdict,  he  will  instruct  you  that 
it  must  be  signed  by  every  one  of  you  and  sealed. 
You  will  then  be  discharged,  and  avoid  the  necessity 
of  being  detained  here  all  night."  With  this  the 
court  broke  up,  and  the  audience  left. 

It  will  be  unnecessary  to  dwell  at  length  upon 
the  effect  which  this  delay  had  upon  the  several 
persons  concerned.  Trescot  went  home  confident 
as  to  the  lawsuit,  and  intent  on  concealing  the 
gravity  of  the  personal  question  he  had  yet  to  face. 
His  wife  was  uneasy,  and  was  also  doing  her  best 
to  hide  her  anxiety. 

While  to  them  the  result  of  the  trial  was,  for 
many  reasons,  a  matter  of  interest,  to  Greyhurst 
it  meant  far  more.  He  went  slowly  homeward  in 
the  dusk,  a  troubled,  anxious,  irritated  man.  He  ate 
his  supper  hastily  and  sat  down  in  his  library, 
resolving  to  rid  his  mind  of  the  cares  of  a  disap 
pointing  day.  He  took  up  a  book.  His  taste  in 
literature  was  good,  and  the  loneliness  his  tempera 
ment  fostered  had  helped  to  make  him  a  reader. 
But  now  the  thoughts  of  the  day's  passions  could 
not  easily  be  dismissed.  He  closed  a  volume  of 
Burke,  and  sat  still ;  but  whether  he  reflected  on  his 
gathering  debts,  his  political  ambitions,  or  the  loss 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  217 

an  adverse  verdict  would  mean,  he  recurred,  as  was 
habitual  with  him,  to  some  human  instrument  as 
responsible;  and  now  it  was,  above  all,  the  Yankee 
lawyer  whose  triumph  would  cost  him  so  dear,  and 
who  had  insulted  him,  and,  although  Greyhurst  did 
not  confess  it,  had  preserved  that  serenity  of  temper 
which  so  exasperates  those  for  whom  a  slight  is 
an  outrage,  and  a  hasty  word  an  insult.  He  knew 
full  well  the  mischief-making  capacity  of  his  tem 
per,  and  at  times  dreaded  the  possible  results  of 
such  consequent  outbreaks  as  others  feared,  and  as 
had  cost  him  many  hours  of  regretful  penitence. 
He  was  no  master  of  himself,  and  now  an  evil 
mood  possessed  the  hour.  He  drank  more  than  was 
his  habit,  and  at  last  went  to  bed,  only  to  pass  a 
restless  night  and  to  awaken  unrefreshed. 

A  great  crowd  was  pouring  into  or  gathering 
around  the  court-house  next  morning.  As  Greyhurst 
passed  through  it,  sullen  and  anxious,  he  fancied  men 
were  smiling  at  him  and  his  probable  defeat.  Tres- 
cot  nodded  to  him  coldly  as  he  entered  within  the 
bar,  but  the  elder  man  stared  at  him  with  set  face, 
and  without  returning  the  salutation. 

A  little  after  ten  the  jury  entered ;  the  judge  took 
his  seat  amid  profound  silence.  The  clerk  an 
nounced  that  at  half-past  nine  the  night  before  the 
jury,  having  agreed,  had  all  signed  a  verdict  which 
had  then  been  sealed.  The  clerk  having  handed  the 
paper  to  the  foreman,  it  was  opened  and  read 
aloud:  "We,  the  undersigned,  find  a  verdict  for  the 
defendant."  Each  juryman  was  asked,  in  turn,  if 
this  were  his  verdict,  and  the  jury  was  discharged. 


218  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

Amid  the  buzz  and  stir  this  announcement  made 
in  the  court-room,  a  few  pleased,  the  larger  number 
disappointed,  Greyhurst  moved  toward  Trescot,  and 
then,  as  if  otherwise  minded,  turned  aside  and  gath 
ered  up  his  papers.  No  one  spoke  to  him,  while 
Averill  and  several  of  the  older  members  of  the  bar 
gathered  about  Trescot.  As  they  discussed  some  of 
the  points  of  the  case,  a  young  lawyer  who  had  left 
the  court-room  returned  and  said  to  Trescot: 

"Mrs.  Trescot  is  waiting  outside.  She  asked  me 
to  tell  you  to  come  to  her  at  once.  She  desired  me 
to  say  it  was  very  important.'* 

Trescot  turned  to  Averill  and  said :  ' '  My  wife  is 
outside  and  has  sent  for  me  in  haste.  I  shall  be  back 
in  a  few  minutes." 

He  hurried  out  of  a  side  door  and  found  Con 
stance  waiting. 

"I  heard  it,  George.  You  have  won.  Oh,  I  am 
glad !  Mr.  Randolph  told  me.  But  come  over  here 
in  the  shade.  How  pale  you  are  ! ' ' 

"Yes;  my  arm  is  giving  me  pain." 

"I  am  sorry,  George.  Come  over  here  to  that 
bench  under  the  trees.  I  have  bad  news." 

"What  is  it?     A  telegram?" 

"Yes;  read  it.  Uncle  Rufus  is  dead.  I  thought 
you  ought  to  know  of  it  at  once." 

He  read: 

"To  MRS.  GEORGE  TRESCOT: 

"Uncle  died  last  night,  at  eleven  o'clock,  suddenly. 
Knowing  of  the  trial,  and  your  great  anxiety,  I  add 
that  there  is  no  will.  I  am  sure  of  this.  We  are  the 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  219 

sole  heirs.     Let  George  act  as  seems  best.     I  shall 
approve.     See  letter  to  follow. 

" SUSAN  HOOD." 

That  Constance  felt  the  shock  of  her  uncle's  sud 
den  death  was  certain,  but  far  more  to  her  was  her 
husband's  interest,  and  just  now  even  his  safety. 
She  had  tried  not  to  let  him  see  her  anxiety.  It 
was  very  great,  for  she  had  not  failed  to  see  the 
material  of  a  serious  quarrel  in  the  scenes  of  the 
court-room;  and  now  here  was  death  bringing 
peace,  and  power  to  consider  generously  the  peo 
ple  concerned  in  the  suit,  and,  above  all,  release 
from  fear,  and  freedom  to  fly  to  more  congenial 
surroundings. 

He  was  very  grave  as  he  twice  read  the  telegram. 
Constance  sat  still.  There  was  much  to  think  about. 

"You  are  the  sole  heirs,"  he  said ;  "and  I  suppose, 
dear,  it  is  a  great  estate." 

"Yes,  yes;  but  now— at  once— use  this,  George. 
Do  settle  at  once.  Give  them  half— give  them  all." 

He  smiled  at  her  urgency.  He  was  pleased  to  be 
set  at  liberty  to  act  kindly,  but  his  nature  did  not 
admit  of  the  excitement  which  Constance  felt.  He 
said,  as  they  sat  in  the  shade :  "Nothing  can  be  done 
in  haste.  We  must  wait  for  Susan's  letter." 

"Yes,  yes;  I  know;  but  you  can  at  least  see  the 
general  now— at  once— and  ask  him  to  let  these  poor 
people  know  that  we  intend  to  be  reasonable ;  my 
uncle  never  was." 

He  sat  for  some  minutes  talking,  and  at  last  said : 

"You  are  practically  Susan's  attorney.     At  all 


220  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

events,  she  will  do  as  we  think  best.  It  is  a  vast 
relief." 

He  read  the  telegram  again. 

"It  is  a  strange  fate,  Constance.  She  says  he 
died  at  eleven.  Had  he  died  before  the  verdict  was 
signed,— that  was  at  half -past  nine,— it  would  have 
been  a  mistrial  and  all  to  go  over  again.  I  should 
not  have  been  sorry  to  have  compromised  matters 
without  a  trial." 

"But  you  will  do  something,  George,  now.  I  in 
sist  that  you  do  not  delay." 

"Yes,  dear,  and  most  gladly." 

"And  you  won't  delay?" 

"I  will  not.  -And  now,  dear,  I  must  go.  I  will 
come  back  soon ;  wait  for  me  here. ' '  Rising,  he  put 
the  telegram  in  the  left-hand  pocket  of  his  waist 
coat,  saying:  "I  shall  find  Averill  at  once  and  ask 
him  to  see  Greyhurst."  Constance  sat  down  on  the 
bench  under  the  trees. 

As  he  moved  away  the  crowd  went  by,  talking, 
gesticulating,  excited.  Trescot,  moving  on,  sought 
eagerly  for  Averill  among  the  lawyers  and  others 
now  coming  out  of  the  side  exit.  When  not  more 
than  twenty  feet  away,  he  observed  the  general  on 
the  top  step.  At  the  same  moment  he  saw  Greyhurst 
emerge  from  the  crowd,  and  knew  that  he  must  meet 
him  first.  He  would  show  him  the  telegram,  and 
offer  to  divide  the  land.  It  pleased  him,  and,  forget 
ful  of  the  insults  he  had  received,  and  smiling  at  the 
kindly  thought,  he  raised  his  lame  hand  to  take  the 
telegram  from  his  pocket.  As  he  did  so  he  was 
aware  of  Greyhurst 's  leveled  revolver.  He  stood 


CONSTANCE  TBESCOT  221 

facing  his  foe,  motionless;  saw  the  crowd  scatter, 
heard  Constance  scream,  and  heard  no  more  on 
earth.  He  fell  on  his  face,  clutching  the  telegram. 

Twenty  feet  away  Greyhurst  stood  still,  pistol 
in  hand.  Averill  caught  him  by  the  shoulder  and 
swung  him  round.  "You  scoundrel!  to  shoot  an 
unarmed,  crippled  man!" 

"No  man  shall  call  me  that  and  live!" 

"You  fool!  A  bullet  in  me  and  you  swing  in 
ten  minutes  from  one  of  these  trees ! ' ' 

"He  was  drawing  on  me." 

"He  was  not.  He  never  went  armed,  and  you 
knew  it." 

Greyhurst  made  no  reply.  It  was  wild,  quick  talk, 
and  meanwhile  a  crowd  gathered  where  Constance 
knelt  beside  her  husband.  They  turned  him  over 
on  his  back.  "Is  he  dead?"  she  cried,  looking  up. 
"How  can  he  be  dead?"  The  features  twitched,  the 
face  grew  white,  and  the  eyes  became  set.  No  one 
spoke.  "Tell  me,"  she  cried.  "Will  no  one  tell 
me  ?  Is  he  dead  ? ' ' 

Some  one  said  softly,  "He  is  dead." 

She  rose  and  looked  about  her,  as  if  in  search  of 
something,  and  then  with  both  hands  struck  aside 
the  yielding  crowd.  She  walked  swiftly  to  where 
Greyhurst  stood.  He  fell  back  a  step  or  two,  the 
pistol  in  his  hand.  She  said,  as  if  with  effort,  slowly, 
word  by  word: 

"You  have  murdered  an  unarmed  man.  Oh, 
coward!  coward!" 

A  crowd  gathered  quickly,  excited,  curious,  silent, 
while  the  woman  stood  a  moment,  paling,  motionless, 


222  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

unable  to  say  more,  her  lips  moving,  her  face 
twitching. 

Greyhurst  stared  at  her.  He  said  nothing,  but 
his  face  changed.  The  wild  madness  of  anger  was 
gone. 

"My  God!"  she  cried,  and  fell  at  his  feet.  The 
man  moved  a  step  toward  her,  and  then  stood  still, 
horror-stricken. 

She  was  mercifully  insensible,  convulsed  and 
quivering  as  they  carried  her  to  the  porch  of  the 
court-house. 

Averill  said:  "Go  on,  Dudley,  and  tell  my  wife. 
Send  me  a  carriage  at  once."  Then  he  turned  to 
Greyhurst :  "If,  sir,  you  feel  insulted,  I  am  at  your 
disposal.  Gentlemen  in  my  State  do  not  murder 
unarmed  men.  I  will  see  your  seconds  at  any  time ; 
but  never  dare  to  speak  to  me  again."  He  waited 
an  answer  for  a  moment,  and  receiving  none,  moved 
away. 

Greyhurst,  turning,  stared  after  him.  Some  one 
said :  ' '  How  was  it,  Greyhurst  ?  What  did  he  do  ? " 

' '  Oh,  go  to ! "  he  returned ;  and  dropping  the 

pistol  into  his  pocket,  he  walked  slowly  away,  men 
silently  looking  after  him. 

He  went  to  a  magistrate  and  gave  himself  up. 
After  a  brief  hearing  bail  was  accepted,  and  he 
went  away  to  his  home,  now  seeing  the  woman's 
face  of  anguish,  and  now  the  smiling  triumph  of 
the  man  he  had  killed.  He  tried  to  think  that, 
according  to  his  Western  code,  he  was  justified.  He 
had  been  told  that  Trescot  never  carried  arms.  He 
had  not  believed  it  at  the  time,  and  now  fell  back 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  223 

on  this  remembrance.  Most  men  went  armed,  and 
certainly  Trescot  had  seemed  to  him  about  to  draw 
a  pistol;  and  the  man  had  said  he  was  responsible, 
which  in  St.  Ann  meant  that  he  was  prepared  to  ex 
pect  attack. 

And  Averill?  He  was  in  no  mood  for  another 
quarrel.  As  concerned  the  legal  consequences  he 
was  in  no  wise  disturbed,  nor,  indeed,  did  they  at 
all  occupy  him.  He  had  had  affrays  in  wild  mining- 
camps,  had  himself  been  wounded,  but  had  never 
killed  a  man.  Now,  being  a  person  with  some  im 
agination,  and  sensitive  as  to  his  own  moods,  he 
began  to  reflect  on  this  tremendous  fact.  He  had 
killed  a  man.  By  the  time  he  reached  his  home  he 
had  become  uneasy  in  mind.  A  certain  uncontrol 
lable  rush  of  thoughts  came  over  him— a  jostling  of 
self-excuses,  a  sense  of  wrong  done  to  himself,  of 
insult,  a  wish  that  he  had  been  less  hasty.  "Oh, 
my  God ;  that  woman  ! "  he  murmured,  as  he  entered 
his  home.  To-morrow  he  would  consider  it  all ;  now 
he  must  cease  to  think,  for  to  think  was  torment 
and  led  to  nothing  helpful.  He  went  up-stairs,  and 
drank  glass  after  glass  of  whisky,  until  he  had 
drugged  himself  into  a  state  where  he  ceased  to 
reason,  and  where  memory  was  dulled,  and  at  last 
dead.  He  lay  on  a  lounge  all  day  and  through  the 
night,  without  undressing,  sleeping  a  drunken  slum 
ber. 

At  morning,  when  he  awakened,  it  all  came  back 
to  him  by  degrees,  and  again  he  recalled  the  ver 
dict,  and  was  filled  with  dull  anger.  The  evening 
before  he  had  made  himself  incapable  of  efficient 


224  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

reasoning.  Now  one  aspect  of  the  affair  presented 
itself,  and  now  another.  Bits  of  the  death-scene  ap 
peared—the  woman's  wide-open  eyes,  their  color; 
that  her  chin-muscles  had  twitched  before  she  fell; 
how,  as  by  instinct,  he  had  made  a  step  forward  to 
pick  her  up,  and  then  did  not.  Some  unseen  hand 
was  jangling  the  wires  of  puppet  memories— he  a 
helpless  looker-on. 

He  had  regret  rather  than  anything  as  positive 
as  remorse,  and  soon  recovered  the  power  to  deal 
with  the  facts.  Seated  in  his  library  in  sunshine, 
he  was  at  last  able  to  dismiss  the  emotional  dis 
turbance  which  had  disquieted  him  the  day  before, 
and  to  consider  the  effect  of  what  he  had  done  on  his 
legal  and  political  career  and  on  his  social  position. 
His  anger  still  burned,  and  he  lost  nothing  of  his 
hatred.  He  was  sorry  only  because  of  the  hasty  form 
his  revenge  had  taken  for  what  he  considered  in 
sulting.  With  a  few  men  like  Averill  it  would  in 
jure  him.  A  duel  would  have  been  wiser.  Then  he 
thought  of  the  woman  in  the  madness  of  her  grief. 
She  had  called  him  "coward."  It  stung  him  like 
a  whip. 

Well,  he  would  outlive  it,  and  as  he  must  live 
and  had  interests  in  and  near  the  town,  he  must 
learn  to  control  a  temper  which  he  knew  had  lost 
him  friends,  influence,  and  opportunities.  He  hoped 
to  be  chosen  by  the  county  to  represent  it  in  the 
legislature.  The  death  by  his  hand  of  an  unpopular 
land  agent— a  Yankee  officer— would  hardly  trouble 
the  rough  country-folk. 

He  rose  and  walked  about  among  his  books.    He 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  225 

had  lived  much  alone  since  his  wife  had  left  him; 
and,  as  is  often  the  case  in  small  towns,  had  read 
as  men  in  larger  communities  do  not.  As  he  rose 
early,  he  was  apt,  after  breakfast,  to  sit  down  for 
an  hour  with  a  cigar  and  a  book.  It  was  the  habit 
of  a  lonely  man. 

"Now,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  must  do  just  as 
I  usually  do."  He  sat  down  and  took  up  the  vol 
ume  he  had  been  reading— a  life  of  John  Marshall. 
It  had  lost  interest.  He  could  not  keep  his  atten 
tion  on  the  text.  His  cigar  went  out.  ' '  Damn  it ! " 
he  exclaimed,  "if  this  goes  on—  Of  a  sudden  the 
naked  fact  of  having  killed  came  back  to  him.  This 
was  not  murder.  No  one  would  call  it  that.  Once 
he  had  read : 

' 'The  devil  owns  the  minutes, 
God  the  years." 

This  began  to  say  itself  over  and  over  in  his  mind, 
bringing  back  again  the  fatal  scene.  What  had  the 
devil's  minute  brought?  What  would  the  "years 
of  God"  bring? 

Time  would  go  on.  People  would  forget.  Mrs. 
Trescot  would  go  away,  of  course.  He  would  see 
her  stately  grace  no  more.  The  thought  of  her  called 
up  the  face  of  another  woman  far  away  in  Sacra 
mento.  What  would  she  say?  What  would  she 
think? 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  had  better  go  out  and  show 
myself."  He  went  to  his  room  and  took  his  watch 
from  the  table.  He  had  forgotten  to  wind  it.  Then 

15 


226  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

he  picked  up  his  revolver,  glanced  at  the  one  empty 
barrel,  hesitated  a  moment,  put  it  back  on  the  table, 
and  went  down  to  his  office.  As  he  passed  Trescot's 
home  he  looked  across  at  the  house  and  quickened 
his  steps. 

The  next  day  he  left  St.  Ann  and  remained  absent 
until,  as  he  supposed,  the  funeral  of  his  victim 
would  be  over. 


XVII 

|HE  days  went  by,  and  it  was  now  late 
in  October.    Mrs.  Averill  waited  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs.     "Will  she  live?" 
she  said,  as  she  met  Dr.  Eskridge,  a 
war-worn  old  Confederate  surgeon. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  "unhappily  she  will  live."     He 
had  known  and  liked  Constance.     "What  she  will 
be  or  what  she  will  do  when  this  wild  hysteria  is 
over,  no  one  can  say.    Now  she  knows  nothing." 

"I  was  with  her  all  last  night,  doctor.  At  times 
she  lay  in  a  stupor;  at  others  she  talked,  laughing, 
about  her  child,  and  said,  over  and  over,  'It  must 
be  called  George.'  : 

"Poor  lady,  that  hope  is  at  an  end." 
"Yes;  and  more  's  the  pity." 
"I  still  think  that  her  sister  should  not  see  her." 
"She  understands  that,"  said  Mrs.  Averill.     "A 
most  sensible,  thoughtful  young  woman,  and  so  con 
siderate.    My  poor  husband  is  distressed  beyond  mea 
sure.    I  did  not  think  there  was  possible  for  him  any 
other  sorrow  on  earth  except  my  death,  and  I  am 
old.     But  this  young  man  was,  in  some  ways,  like 
my  son  Harry.     I  am  worried  about  the  general. 
I  wish  you  would  talk  to  him." 

"I  will.     In  a   few  weeks— perhaps  abruptly— 
227 


228  CONSTANCE  TKESCOT 

Mrs.  Trescot  will  come  out  of  this  state,  perhaps 
well,  perhaps  physically  broken  in  health.  Then  she 
must  go  away  and  never  return." 

"I  suppose  that  will  be  best.  These  two  young 
women  are  both  rich,  my  dear  doctor,  and  can  go 
where  they  please.  Mr.  Hood  did  not  mean  to  leave 
them  much  money,  but  he  died  without  leaving  a 
will,  and  now  they  have  all.  He  was  a  singular 
man,  and  really  this  dreadful  affair  was  caused  by 
his  obstinate  hardness." 

"I  have  heard  as  much,"  said  the  doctor. 

"He  made  a  dozen  wills,  and  fortunately  burned 
the  last  one  the  day  before  he  died." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  doctor,  "a  will  is  the  only 
contribution  to  folly  a  dead  man  can  make.  Ah, 
good  morning,  Miss  Hood.  Your  sister  is  somewhat 
better;  we  must  have  patience." 

"I  have  it,"  said  Susan.  "But  come  into  the 
garden  with  me  a  moment.  It  seems  just  now  im 
possible  to  find  a  quiet  place. ' '  He  followed  her,  and 
as  they  walked  down  the  path  she  said: 

"Do  you  think  that  if  she  recovers  she  will  be 
in  mind  what  she  was ;  and  can  you,  with  your  great 
experience  and  what  you  know  of  her,  form  any 
idea  of  how  this  calamity  will  influence  her  life? 
She  is  all  I  have,  and  I  am  so  very  anxious." 

"I  think  it  likely  that  she  will  get  well  and  be 
sound  in  mind  and  body.  Unless  misfortune  wrecks 
us  utterly  and  we  become  insane,  after  a  shock  like 
this  we  remain  essentially  what  we  were.  New  con 
ditions,  accidents,  sorrow,  may  cause  people  to  ap 
pear  for  a  time  alien  from  themselves.  They  are 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  229 

rarely  so.  The  novel  incident  only  evolves  what 
might  have  remained  unused,  unknown,  for  a  life 
time.  She  may  surprise  you,  but  it  will  be  with 
the  use  of  some  quality  you  have  never  had  occasion 
to  see— or  she  to  employ.  Grief  does  not,  as  a  rule, 
alter  people  radically." 

Susan  listened,  deeply  concerned  and  thoughtful. 
"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "But  it  does  seem  as  if 
a  thing  like  this  must  change  one." 

"No.  Put  yourself  in  her  place.  What  would 
you  be  or  become?  What  would  you  do?" 

"I  should  go  to  the  East— to  Egypt.  One  seems 
there  so  small,  so  puny.  I  should  try  to  forgive. 
Oh,  I  should  try  to  save  my  soul  alive;  but  then, 
doctor,  I  am  an  old  maid,  and  cannot  imagine  what 
a  woman  like  Constance  feels  or  will  feel." 

The  doctor  considered  for  a  moment  the  face  and 
figure  of  the  "old  maid,"  and,  smiling,  looked  at  his 
watch.  "You  old  maids  are  perilous  folk.  No  one 
else  shall  abuse  you  but  Miss  Susan,  and  I  do  not 
mean  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you.  I  shall  come 
in  to-night." 

She  went  with  him  through  the  house  to  the  door, 
and  there  saw  Coffin  seated  on  the  steps.  He 
haunted  the  place,  questioning  the  servants,  or,  with 
boundless  patience  won  in  the  loneliness  of  the 
woods,  waiting  until  some  one  came  out  who  could 
tell  him  of  Mrs.  Trescot. 

Susan  said:  "Come  in." 

"No,  I  won't  come  in.  How  is  she?  Will  she  die? 
I  could  not  stand  that." 

"No;  she  will  get  well.     But,  Mr.  Coffin,  I  want 


230  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

you  to  think  over  what  I  said  to  you.    You  talked 
wildly  of  killing  that  man ;  you  frightened  me. ' ' 

"I  Ve  thought  about  that.  When  she  's  well  I  '11 
see;  if  she  wants  it,  I  '11  get  him,  sure." 

"She  never  will  want  that— never." 

"I  'm  not  that  sure,  and  I  ain't  made  that  way, 
neither.  I  'm  going  to  wait  and  see.  If  she  just 
lifts  a  finger  I  '11  kill  that  man." 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  she  cried.  "It  is  horrible— murder 
on  murder.  We  are  going  away  as  soon  as  she  is 
well  enough.  God  will  help  her  to  forget,  and  she 
is  young,  and  time  is  God's  great  peacemaker." 

"She  is  going  away!  going  away!  That  's  awful. 
Since  I  was  a  boy  I  never  had  a  friend  like  she  was 
—and  she  's  going."  His  eyes  filled  and  he  stood 
still,  the  tears  rolling  down  out  of  the  patient  eyes 
over  his  brown,  sun-tanned  cheeks.  He  brushed 
them  away  with  his  sleeve  and  went  out  of  the  gate, 
saying  over  and  over,  "She  's  going." 

The  weeks  went  by  while  Constance  slowly  re 
covered.  At  times  she  sat  up  of  a  sudden  with  di 
lated  pupils,  staring,  but  silent.  At  other  times  she 
babbled  of  her  home,  her  childhood,  of  Susan,  but 
never  of  recent  events. 

At  last,  one  morning,  after  a  natural  slumber,  she 
sat  up  and  said  to  Mrs.  Averill: 

"Where  am  I?  Tell  George  I  want  him  at  once. 
I  say  at  once  ! ' ' 

Susan,  hearing  her  high-pitched  cry,  ran  in. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  asked  Constance. 
"Where  is  George?" 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  231 

The  two  women  stood  by,  mute  and  without  re 
source. 

1 1  Why  don 't  you  answer  1    Something  happened. ' ' 

She  fell  back,  to  their  relief,  again  insensible. 

From  this  time  she  began  to  recover,  as  it  were 
in  fragments,  her  memory  of  the  tragic  past.  For 
a  while  she  lost  to-day  such  remembrances  as  yes 
terday  had  brought.  A  little  later,  the  storm  which 
had  left  her  nervous  system  shattered  passed  away, 
and  she  began  to  piece  together  her  recovered  recol 
lections.  Susan  sat  by  in  wonder,  grieving  for  the 
pain  this  revival  of  memories  was  plainly  writing 
on  the  face  once  so  joyous  and  so  fair.  Some 
where  she  had  seen  described  such  a  condition  of 
mind,  and  as,  one  day,  she  talked  of  it  to  the  doctor, 
she  recalled  and  quoted  the  lines: 

' '  '  For  again  life 's  scattered  fragments,  memories  of 

joy  and  woe, 
Tremulously  grew  to  oneness  as  a  storm-torn  lake 

may  grow 
Quiet,  winning  back  its  pictures,  when  the  wild 

winds  cease  to  blow ! '  ' 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "that  describes  it  perfectly." 
A  word  or  two  now  and  then  told  that  she  knew 
of  Trescot's  death.  For  a  week  she  asked  no  ques 
tions,  but  lay  still,  entirely  patient.  At  last,  one 
day,  the  doctor,  uneasy  at  her  changeless  melan 
choly,  said  to  her:  "You  are  better;  do  you  not  feel 
better?" 


232  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"Yes,  I  am  better;  I  should  like  to  get  on  to  the 
lounge. ' ' 

Pleased  at  any  return  of  will  or  wish,  he  said, 
"Yes,  certainly,"  and  with  Susan's  help  lifted  her 
wasted  frame  and  laid  her  on  the  lounge. 

She  said:  "Thank  you,  and  please  leave  me  with 
Dr.  Eskridge."  Susan  went  out. 

"Doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Trescot,  "I  know  all  about 
it." 

He  was  immediately  relieved.  He  had  looked  for 
ward  with  anxiety  to  the  hour  of  questions.  "My 
poor  child ! ' '  was  all  he  could  say. 

"How  long  have  I  been  ill?" 

"Nine  weeks,  Mrs.  Trescot." 

Suddenly  she  asked:  "And  the  child?" 

He  took  her  hand.  She  read  his  answer  in  the 
kind  eyes  which  had  seen  so  much  of  disaster  and 
death. 

"I  see— I  know.  If  anything  could  make  it  worse, 
that  does." 

"Do  not  talk  any  more,"  he  said,  as  he  rose. 

"Yes,  I  must.  No,  you  cannot  go;  I  must  finish. 
Was  that— that  man  ever  tried?" 

"Yes." 

"Well?— oh,  tell  me;  don't  be  afraid;  I  can  bear 
—oh,  anything,  now— anything!" 

"He  was  declared  not  guilty." 

"How  could  that  be?" 

But  now  Dr.  Eskridge  saw  signals  which  made 
him  resolute.  He  replied:  "When  you  are  better 
you  shall  hear.  I  will  answer  no  more  questions 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  233 

" One— only  one.     I  insist.     Will  he  live  here? 
Does  he  live  here?" 
"Yes." 

"  Thank  you.  I  will  ask  no  more  questions.  I 
promise  to  be  good— very  good." 

The  doctor  rose,  relieved.  He  said:  "In  two 
weeks  you  must  go  away,  and  later  it  would  really 
he  best  to  go  abroad.  You  are  young  and  will  get 
well  and  strong." 

She  smiled  feebly,  the  large  blue  eyes  unnatural 
and  strange  in  the  worn,  thin  features — they  alone 
unwasted  and  beautiful. 

"  'I  am  young/  Is  n't  that  what  is  always  said, 
doctor?" 

"Yes;  but  it  is  true,  and  let  me  add  that,  how 
ever  impossible  it  may  seem  to  you,  time  is  very 
kind— to  the  young  at  least." 

"I  am  not  young,  and  time— yes,  I  want  its  help. 
I  do  not  wish  to  die;  I  want  to  live." 

"Now,  that  is  better,"  he  said,  and  went  down 
stairs,  telling  Susan  on  the  way  that  her  sister  knew 
everything,  and  was  really  in  a  wholesome  state 
of  mind  and  eager  to  get  well. 

Susan  shook  her  head.  How  could  that  be?  Be 
ing  a  woman,  she  wondered  that  her  sister  could 
wish  to  live. 

Constance  asked  no  more  questions;  but,  seem 
ing  to  put  it  all  aside,  set  herself  to  get  well. 

Three  days  before  they  left  she  called  Susan 
and  the  general  to  her  room,  insisting  that  she 
would  not  be  satisfied  until  she  was  at  ease  about 
certain  matters.  She  surprised  both  by  the  clear- 


234  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

ness  and  decision  with  which  she  stated  her 
wishes. 

"  Susan  and  I,  general,  are,  I  am  sure,  agreed 
to  divide  the  shore-land  at  the  bend  with  the  Bap- 
tiste  heirs;  but,  let  me  ask,  will  such  action  bene 
fit  that  man?" 

Susan  looked  up. 

"I  do  not  know.  He  lost  the  suit,  and,  of  course, 
his  large  contingent  fee.  I  do  not  see  how  a  sepa 
rate  agreement  as  between  you  and  Mrs.  Baptiste 
can  benefit  him,  even  if  his  fee  had  been  arranged 
to  be  a  share  of  the  land." 

"Then,"  said  Constance,  "if  they  agree  not  to 
litigate  further,  and  he  is  none  the  better  for  it, 
we  will  divide.  Does  that  suit  you,  Susan?" 

"Yes,  I  have  said  so;  anything,  dear,  that  you 
want  done  I  shall  want  done;  and  this  I  especially 
desire  as  an  act  of  simple  justice.  We  will  give  the 
general  a  power  of  attorney  to  act  for  us." 

"Then  sister  and  I  wish  the  squatters  to  have 
land  on  the  bluff  back  of  the  bend— to  eastward,  I 
mean." 

The  general  made  notes. 

"The  land  must  be  good,"  said  Constance;  "and 
we  wish  to  be  generous.  I  should  like  them  all  to 
be  helped  to  buy  what  they  need  to  clear  and  till 
the  land." 

"It  will  be  rather  costly." 

"Yes,"  said  Susan;  "but  Constance  wishes  it, 
and  there  is  a  large  amount  of  accumulated  interest 
in  bank.  It  was  my  uncle's  way." 

"I  want  Coffin  especially  cared  for,"  said  Con- 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  235 

stance.  "I  wish  him  to  have  the  cleared  land 
nearest  the  bluff;  and,  general,  I  want  you 
to  pay  him  five  dollars  a  week  to  care  for  my 
garden. ' ' 

''Your  garden,  Conny!"  exclaimed  Susan. 

"Yes;  I  mean  to  shut  up  the  house;  but  I  shall 
keep  it ;  I  shall  never  sell  it.  I  want  no  one  to  enter 
the  study.  Lock  it.  Has  it  been  disturbed  ? ' ' 

"No,  dear;  I  locked  it  and  have  the  key." 

"Then  give  it  to  me.  The  house  is  mine.  I  shall 
keep  it  as  it  is." 

"Is  not  that  unwise,  sister?" 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind." 

"Well,  dear,  it  is  yours.    We  will  not  discuss  it." 

The  doctor  had  long  since  warned  her  against  con 
tradictions,  and  against  anything  which  might  stir 
up  dangerous  emotion. 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  the  general. 

"Yes,"  said  Susan;  "except  that  we  desire  to 
make  the  most  liberal  arrangements  in  regard  to  the 
mortgages  not  yet  settled.  You  cannot  be  too  gen 
erous.  My  sister  and  I  know  how  your  people  have 
suffered. ' ' 

The  old  soldier  looked  up,  touched  by  what  she 
said.  "You  are  giving  a  sad  old  man  a  rare  plea 
sure.  Is  that  all?" 

"No,"  said  Constance.  "I  have  here  a  letter. 
Read  it,  please,  when  I  am  gone.  If  you  dislike  to 
do  what  I  ask,  it  can  wait.  There  is  no  hurry  about 
it,  and  I  am  very  sorry  to  trouble  you." 

"You  do  not  trouble  me.  Ah,  my  dear  children, 
we  shall  miss  you  sadly." 


236  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"But  next  summer,"  said  Susan,  "you  will 
spend  with  us  at  Beverly." 

" Perhaps,"  he  said;  "but  you  had  better  go 
abroad. ' ' 

Constance  had  put  off  seeing  Coffin;  but  on  the 
sixteenth  of  December,  the  day  before  they  were 
to  leave,  she  sent  for  him. 

He  entered,  halting  in  his  gait,  somewhat  bow- 
legged,  a  round-shouldered  man  in  much-worn  gray, 
with  here  and  there  a  lingering  Confederate  button, 
a  ragged  felt  hat  in  his  hand.  What  Susan  called 
the  "lost-dog"  look  was  in  his  eyes. 

What  he  saw  was  a  tall,  wasted  woman  in  black. 
She  was  very  thin  and  without  a  relic  of  the  rosy 
color  which  once  added  so  much  to  her  beauty. 
The  large  framework  of  her  features  showed  too 
prominently  in  the  absence  of  flesh.  Above  all, 
the  man  was  shocked  at  her  complete  pallor.  He 
was  too  unthoughtful  to  have  been  prepared  for 
the  effects  of  emotion  and  consequent  illness.  Her 
quiet  manner  not  less  amazed  him.  The  women 
of  his  own  class  wept  and  were  natural.  This 
woman  had  back  of  her  two  centuries  of  Puritan 
self-restraint,  and  the  controlling  reserve  of  a  class 
accustomed  to  hide  emotion. 

She  said,  as  she  gave  him  her  thin,  cold  hand: 
"Sit  down;  but  first  shut  the  door.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  chair. 

"How  are  you?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  very  well,  ma'am." 

"Can  you  hold  your  tongue,  Tom?  I  want  to 
trust  you." 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  237 

can."  He  was  a  man  by  long  habit  wood- 
dumb,  as  the  old  lumbermen  say— a  man  of  few 
words. 

"I  want  you  to  take  care  of  my  garden." 

1  'Yes,  ma'am." 

"You  will  come  every  week  to  the  general  to  get 
five  dollars;  you  will  care  for  my  garden.  You 
are  also  to  have  the  best  land  on  the  bluff. ' ' 

"I  did  n't  expect  all  that.  I  'm  right  thankful. 
They  do  say  you  're  going  away.  Mrs.  Averill 
says  you  '11  never  come  back.  Are  that  so  ? " 

"No;  they  think  so;  but  I  am  coming  back.  That 
is  what  I  want  no  one  to  know.  Will  you  keep  it 
to  yourself?" 

"I  reckon,  Mrs.  Trescot,  you  know  you  can  trust 
me." 

"I  am  sure  I  can,"  she  said  as  she  rose.  "I  am 
still  weak,  and  I  cannot  talk  to  you  as  I  want  to 
do  when  I  come  back.  If  you  need  anything,  Gen 
eral  Averill  will  see  to  it— I  mean  anything  for 
the  Wilsons." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am." 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  He  took  it  with  some 
thing  like  reverence.  Then  he  stood,  uneasy,  evi 
dently  with  something  unsaid. 

"Well?"  she  asked.  "Is  there  anything  else, 
Coffin?" 

"I  was  thinking  you  might  be  wanting  some  one 
to  kill  that  there  man."  He  spoke  simply,  in  his 
drawling  mountain  dialect,  as  he  might  have  asked 
what  tree  he  should  fell. 

The  thought  had  been  too  often  in  her  mind  to 
cause  her  any  shock.  She  said,  ' '  No,  no. ' ' 


238  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"It  would  n't  be  no  trouble,  ma'am.  I  M  as  lief 
do  it  on  my  own  account  as  not.*' 

"No,"  she  said  again;  "no.  That  would  not  be 
any  comfort  to  me,  Tom.  I  want  that  man  to  suf 
fer.  I  want  him  to  suffer  every  day,  every  night, 
till  he  curses  the  day  he  was  born.  I  don't  want 
him  to  die,  Tom;  not  yet— no,  not  yet." 

He  accepted  her  statement  with  blind  faith  in 
her  resources,  and  with  the  obedient  trust  of  a  faith 
ful  dog,  wishing  to  help  and  not  knowing  how. 

"I  would  n't  know  how  to  fetch  that  about. 
Now,  if  you  know— 

"No,  Tom,  not  yet.  I  must  first  get  well  and 
strong.  Good-by;  I  shall  ask  Mrs.  Averill  to  let  me 
hear  how  you  get  on,  and  the  Wilson  children  and 
the  rest.  But  remember,  no  one— no  one  must  know 
what  I  have  said  to  you." 

He  went  away  wondering,  sorry  not  to  be  able 
to  bring  about  what  she  desired,  and  with  dull 
wonder  because  of  her  unwillingness  to  accept  the 
vengeful  service  for  which  he  was  so  ready. 


XVIII 


N  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  the  sis 
ters  left  for  the  long  journey  to  their 
home  on  the  Beverly  coast  of  Massa 
chusetts.  The  general,  who  had  gone 
with  them  to  the  station,  on  his  return 
came  into  the  parlor— no  one  called  it  a  drawing- 
room  in  St.  Ann.  Mrs.  Averill  was  seated  before 
the  hickory-log  fire,  her  knitting  on  her  lap.  She 
was  looking  up  at  the  rival  flags,  the  swords,  and 
the  poor  little  photographs.  As  she  heard  Averill 's 
step  she  took  up  her  knitting,  smiling  sadly  at  the 
intrusive  remembrance  concerning  the  "ravell'd 
sleave  of  care"  which  none  can  knit.  He  had  a  let 
ter  in  his  hand. 

" Eleanor,"  he  said,  "this  has  been  a  great  shock 
to  me.  I  could  not  have  imagined  it  as  possible." 
"No  new  trouble?"  she  said  quickly.  "What  is 
it?  Always  tell  me  things  first  and  say  what  you 
like  afterward.  Men  always  prepare  one."  She 
was  slightly  irritated. 

"Oh,  it  is  of  no  personal  moment.     Read  that, 
Eleanor,  and  tell  me  what  on  earth  I  am  to  do." 
She  took  the  letter  and  read : 

239 


240  CONSTANCE  TBESCOT 

"My  DEAR  GENERAL: 

"If  what  I  now  ask  seems  to  you  too  strange, 
or  may  in  any  way  annoy  you  to  carry  out,  let  it 
go;  it  can  wait. 

"I  want  a  simple  gray  stone  put  over  my  hus 
band  's  grave,  with  this  inscription : 

"  'In  memory  of  George  Trescot.  Aged  29  years. 
Late  Major  6th  Massachusetts  Volunteers. 

"  'Murdered  on  October  9,  1870,  in  St.  Ann/  " 

Mrs.  Averill  slowly  folded  the  letter,  and  replaced 
it  in  the  envelop.  "Do  you  not  think,  Edward,  that 
she  may  be  a  little— well,  not  quite  sane?  It  is  too 
strange,  too  horrible." 

"No;  she  is  sane  enough,  Eleanor.  But  grief 
plays  strange  tricks  with  the  most  sane." 

"I,  at  least,  cannot  imagine  a  really  great  sor 
row  associated  with  ideas  of  revenge;  but,  after  all, 
Edward,  there  is  more  than  revenge  here— or  per 
haps  less.  It  would,  after  all,  be  only  an  unusual 
act  of  justice." 

* '  But  you  could  never  have  desired  such  a  thing. '  ' 

"I  am  not  sure.  No,  I  could  not;  but  I  am  not 
Constance.  I  do  not  blame  her." 

The  general  stood  by  the  fire,  the  letter  in  his 
hand.  At  last  he  said:  "Personally,  Eleanor,  I 
could  wish  this  thing  done.  A  man  commits  a  crime 
like  this  and  justice  fails;  people  forget,  and  there 
is  not  even  a  record;  and  at  last  the  man,  too,  I 
suppose,  forgets." 

"But  does  he?  Do  you  think  that  a  man  like 
him  does  at  last  cease  to  feel  what  he  must  have 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  241 

felt  when  that  dear,  beautiful  woman  fell  at  his 
feet?  I  often  think,  as  I  sit  here,  Edward,— just  a 
sad,  childless  mother,— that  if  the  men  whose  bul 
lets  left  us  lonely  could  have  seen  us  or  fully  known 
what  they  had  done,  they  could  not  have  failed  to 
be  unhappy."  Then  she  paused  and,  looking  up 
affectionately  at  -the  kind,  brave  face  of  the  com 
rade  and  lover,  added:  "But  I  am  glad  they  can 
not  know." 

"Yes,  that  is  as  well,  dear.  I,  too,  have  helped 
to  create  in  unseen  homes  the  misery  of  war,  more  's 
the  pity.  If  every  man  in  an  army  knew  and  saw 
whom  his  shot  killed  or  crippled,  and  saw,  too, 
all  the  far-away,  never-ending  consequences,  I  think 
wars  would  cease." 

"Perhaps,  perhaps,"  she  said,  as  she  looked  up 
with  full  eyes  at  the  crossed  swords  over  the  mantel. 

They  were  silent  again  for  a  little  while.  Then 
she  said: 

"What  will  you  do  about  this  letter— this  in 
scription  ? ' ' 

"I  hardly  know." 

"You  may  be  sure  that  the  churchwarden  will 
never  permit  it.  You  can  see  him  and  show  him  the 
letter  in  confidence.  He  will  say  no;  and  you  can 
repeat  this  to  our  poor  Constance." 

The  general,  well  pleased  to  be  thus  counseled, 
had  his  interview  with  the  astonished  warden,  and 
upon  his  protesting  wrote  to  Constance  to  that  effect. 

She  replied  that  no  one,  not  even  Susan,  knew 
anything  of  her  letter,  and  that  no  further  steps 
need  be  taken.  She  was  sorry  to  have  given  trouble. 

16 


242  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

She  wrote  from  time  to  time,  but  her  letters  were 
rare  and  never  personal.  Meanwhile,  they  had  gone 
to  Europe,  as  the  doctor  had  desired  them  to  do. 
Susan  wrote  often.  Constance  was,  apparently, 
well  again,  but  still  thin  and  without  a  trace  of  her 
lovely  coloring.  The  doctors  said  it  was  anemia, 
but  one  in  Milan  insisted  that  it  was  not  want  of 
blood,  but  some  change  in  the  nervous  system.  He 
had  seen  such  cases  and  said  that  she  would  al 
ways  be  pale.  "I  really  think,"  said  Susan,  "that 
she  is  more  beautiful  than  ever,  but  it  is  the  beauty 
of  living  marble;  and,  dear  Mrs.  Averill,  I  had 
a  cherished  belief  that  this  awful  thing  would  make 
my  sister  turn  where  alone  are  peace  and  rest  and 
the  hope  that  lives  when  earth  has  none.  I  can  see 
no  such  result.  She  will  not  even  let  me  speak  of 
what  is  so  near  to  me.  This  alone  makes  her  irri 
table,  and  that  is  new  to  Constance.  People  stare 
at  her,  and  no  wonder— so  pale,  so  stately,  and  so 
sadly  indifferent.  She  reads  little,  goes  to  the  gal 
leries,  and  takes  no  real  interest  in  anything  ex 
cept  that  she  shows  the  most  eager  desire  to  get 
well  and  vigorous.  I  should  have  wished  to  die. 
She  was  always,  except  with  George  and  me,  a 
reserved  person,  and  now  I  am  sure  there  is  some 
thing  constantly  on  her  mind.  It  is  not  a  mere 
torturing  memory,  but  something  which,  when  she 
thinks  she  is  unnoticed,  makes  her  smile  in  a  cold 
way.  I  cannot  describe  it;  but  it  does  worry  me. 
Once  only  she  has  shown  interest,  and  that  was 
about  the  miniatures  we  have  had  made  for  you 
from  the  photographs  of  your  sons.  They  are  very 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  243 

admirable,  and  to  know  what  they  will  be  to  our 
dear  friends  pleased  her.  She  said,  'How  George 
would  have  liked  them ! '  and,  believe  me,  this  is  the 
only  time  I  have  heard  his  name  pass  her  lips.  I 
can  give  you  no  better  idea  of  the  effect  she  produces 
than  to  tell  you  what  happened  yesterday  at  the 
Pitti— no,  it  was  at  the  Bargello.  I  was  seated, 
looking  at  the  statue  of  David.  My  sister  was 
moving  about,  never  looking  long  at  any  one  of  the 
wonderful  things  on  every  side.  I  heard  a  man 
near  by  say  to  a  younger  man:  'Did  you  see  that 
woman?'  'Yes,'  he  said;  'what  a  colorless  face! 
She  is  as  pale  as  death.'  The  other  said:  'But 
what  a  cold,  beautiful  face!  She  must  have  had  a 
history  worth  hearing.'  They  strolled  away,  and  I 
heard  no  more.  I  have  a  dreadful  desire  to  know 
what  has  become  of  that  man  Greyhurst.  Is  he 
still  in  St.  Ann?" 

Mrs.  Averill  looked  up  from  the  letter  she  had 
been  reading  aloud  to  her  husband. 

"I  have  never  chanced  to  set  eyes  on  him,"  she 
said.  "But,  then,  I  rarely  leave  my  home." 

"As  you  know,  dear,"  returned  Averill,  "we  do 
not  speak.  Of  course  I  see  him  and  hear  of  him. 
I  think  he  has  been  made  to  feel  that  men  are  more 
than  ever  inclined  to  avoid  him;  not  so  much,  I 
am  sorry  to  say,  on  account  of  Trescot's  death  as 
because  of  that  terrible  evidence  of  his  uncertain 
temper.  At  the  club  I  notice  that  he  is  not  asked 
to  take  a  hand  at  cards,  although  he  plays  well." 

"That  is  rather  a  mild  punishment." 

"Yes;  but  it  means  something  to  him;  and  the 


244  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

social  discipline  has  had  its  effect  on  a  man  who 
is,  or  was,  amusing,  and  who  liked  the  society  of 
men.  He  is  a  sensitive  person  and  feels  it.  I  hear, 
too,  that  he  no  longer  carries  a  revolver." 

"Indeed!  and  here,  where  it  is  so  common!" 

"Yes;  Colonel  Dudley  told  me.  He  has  had  two 
or  three  successful  cases  of  late,  and  behaved  with 
propriety  and  good  temper." 

"Mrs.  Dudley  told  me  that  he  has  been  speaking 
in  the  county  at  political  meetings." 

"Yes,"  said  Averill,  "and  admirably  well.  He 
wants  to  go  to  the  legislature.  That  is  all  I  know, 
Eleanor.  I  dislike  even  to  talk  about  him.  So  far 
he  is  prospering,  and  that  dear  fellow  is  forgotten. 
This  is  a  strange  world,  and  not  altogether  satis 
factory." 

Mrs.  Averill  was  silent  for  a  moment,  automati 
cally  plying  her  knitting-needles.  The  general  stood 
with  a  hand  on  her  shoulder.  Presently  she  said: 

"Will  you  drive  me  to  the  churchyard  this  after 
noon  ?  I  want  to  leave  some  flowers  on  the  grave. 

He  replied,  "Certainly— of  course." 

Then  she  added:  "I  was  wondering  how,  in  the 
far  future,  these  two  lives  will  end— her  life  and 
his." 

"Oh,  she  is  young,  and  he  will  live  on,  and  the 
whole  thing  will  be  forgotten  in  time.  It  is  not  the 
only  case  we  have  had  in  St.  Ann ;  and,  as  far  as  I 
have  been  able  to  see,  the  actors  in  these  tragedies 
appear  to  be  very  little  influenced  or  altered.  Grey- 
hurst  is  the  sole  instance  I  recall  in  which  the  man 
who  killed  seemed  to  be  personally  changed  by  what 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  245 

he  had  done.  He  certainly  is  changed— Dudley 
says  very  much  changed." 

"But  how?" 

"Oh,  he  is  moody  and  silent;  he  is  less  gay; 
he  is  more  deferential.  Suppose  we  drop  him, 
Eleanor." 

"It  is  all  very  sad,"  she  said;  and  gathering  up 
her  knitting,  she  went  out  into  the  garden,  where  now 
in  the  late  spring  the  flowers  were  welcoming  the 
sun. 


PAET  II 


YEAR  had  gone  by  since  Trescot's 
death.  St.  Ann  was  prospering  and 
on  the  way  to  become  a  great  city. 
The  shops  were  larger,  the  cotton- 
presses  more  busy,  a  new  railroad  was 
approaching  the  town.  Already  the  divided  water 
front  at  the  bend  was  being  needed  for  cotton- 
storage  and  to  supply  landings  for  freight-boats. 

Greyhurst  profited  by  the  general  rise  in  real 
estate,  and  was  able  to  sell  two  or  three  lots 
at  good  prices.  His  political  prospects  were  also 
promising,  and  with  increased  means  and  lessening 
causes  of  irritability,  he  began  to  feel  some  return  of 
self-confidence  and  the  amiability  of  a  man  reas 
sured  as  to  his  future.  A  fortunate  decision  in  a 
case  against  the  United  States  government  added 
local  popularity,  and  it  may  be  said  that,  except 
in  the  opinion  of  a  small  class,  he  had  suffered  lit 
tle  in  the  eyes  of  a  community  largely  made  up  of 
not  altogether  the  best  elements  of  the  West  and 
South.  As  he  became  busier,  chiefly  with  small 
suits,  occupation  served  to  assist  the  blurring  in 
fluence  of  time. 

247 


248  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

And  yet  he  had  his  hours,  or  at  least  his  minutes, 
of  regret.  He  was  sensitive,  as  the  irritable  often 
are,  not  merely  to  slights,  but  also  to  memorial  re 
minders.  He  never  willingly  walked  over  the 
ground  where  he  had  seen  Trescot  fall.  He  had 
that  day  put  a  rose  in  his  buttonhole.  He  never 
did  so  again.  He  still  excused  his  act  as  justified 
by  what  Trescot  had  said,  and  by  the  self-belief 
encouraged  in  his  trial  by  those  who  swore  they 
thought  Trescot  was  about  to  draw  and  defend 
himself.  He  was  measurably  successful,  but  never 
could  deal  as  readily  with  his  remembrance  of  the 
agonized  face  of  Constance  Trescot.  That  she  had 
gone,  never  to  be  seen  by  him  again,  was  a  vast 
relief. 

There  is,  however,  a  little  space  of  time  when 
the  specters  of  thought  or  memory  possess  the  scene. 
In  the  brief  interval  between  the  waking  state  and 
sleep,  when  the  will  is  becoming  dormant,  and  im 
agination  plays  us  sad  tricks,  he  saw  her  as  she 
stood  before  him  pronouncing  the  sentence  which 
he  never  could  forget.  Of  late  this  visualized  mem 
ory  was  becoming  less  vivid.  He  felt  that  also  to 
be  a  relief. 

On  the  ninth  of  October,  the  anniversary  of  Tres 
cot 's  death,  Grey  hurst  walked  up  the  hill  slope 
from  his  own  house,  and  past  the  long-closed  home 
of  the  man  he  had  killed.  He  had  a  startling  revival 
of  memory  as  he  saw  that  the  windows  were  open, 
but  he  reflected  with  satisfaction  that  it  had  some 
new  owner.  Very  naturally  he  had  never  spoken  of 
it  or  its  former  tenant,  and  knew  nothing  in  regard 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  249 

to  it.  He  went  on,  setting  his  mind  upon  the  busi 
ness  of  the  day,  nor  did  he  venture  to  ask  any  one 
who  had  taken  the  house. 

At  dusk  the  day  before  Constance  Trescot  and  a 
maid  arrived  at  St.  Ann.  Unrecognized  in  her  black 
veil,  she  had  driven  to  her  old  home.  A  letter  from 
her  and  a  despairing  note  from  Susan  Hood  had 
prepared  the  Averills  for  her  coming,  so  that  she 
found  the  house  in  order  and  her  old  servants  ready. 
For  two  days  she  was,  by  her  own  wish,  alone, 
having  begged  her  sister,  who  utterly  disapproved  of 
her  return  to  St.  Ann,  not  to  join  her  for  a  fort 
night. 

She  found  the  house,  as  she  had  desired  to  find  it, 
unaltered.  She  went  up-stairs  and  changed  her 
dress,  asking  to  have  tea  sent  up  to  her.  Later  in 
the  evening,  when  the  house  had  been  closed,  and 
the  servants  had  gone  to  bed,  she  took  a  candle 
and  went  down  to  the  study.  The  room,  by  her 
wish,  had  never  been  opened,  and  the  dust  lay  thick 
on  everything.  For  a  minute  she  stood  with  the 
candlestick  in  her  hand  and  looked  about  her. 
There  were  the  table  and  books— the  Bible  with 
one  of  her  own  gloves  left  in  it  as  a  marker  at  the 
story  of  Kuth,  which  Trescot  had  meant  next  to 
read  to  her.  The  dead  rose-stem  was  in  the  tall 
glass,  the  dried  petals  on  the  table.  The  piano  was 
there,  and  her  music;  on  a  chair  lay  Trescot 's  spurs 
and  his  riding- whip.  She  sat  down,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  months  broke  into  a  passion  of  tears. 
That  yearning  for  the  dead  which  few  escape  came 
upon  her.  She  threw  up  her  hands  with  a  wild 


250  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

gesture  of  utter  despair.  "How  am  I  to  bear  it?" 
she  cried.  "How  am  I  to  bear  it?" 

At  last  she  lay  down  on  the  lounge,  and,  wiping 
her  eyes,  resolutely  controlled  herself.  Once  re 
possessed  of  power  to  think,  she  lay  quiet,  reflecting. 
All  summer,  at  times,  she  had  set  herself  to  plan 
some  scheme  of  punishment  for  the  man  who  had 
wrecked  her  life.  She  had  schemed  in  vain.  She 
was  a  woman,  and  powerless.  What  could  she  do? 

The  air  was  warm,  the  room  close.  She  opened 
a  door  and  went  out  and  stood  in  the  garden.  The 
damp  night  air  brought  to  her  the  fragrance  of 
lingering  autumn  roses,  with  the  keen  memories 
perfumes  so  surely  recall,  and  the  darkness  intensi 
fied  her  abiding  sense  of  loneliness. 

She  sat  down  on  the  steps  of  the  porch,  and  fed 
her  grief  with  remembered  joy.  An  immense  long 
ing  came  over  her  to  see  her  dead  as  he  was  in  life, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  must  have  some 
power  to  compel  this  vision.  She  had  greatly  de 
sired  to  dream  of  him,  and  had  never  done  so.  At 
times,  as  now,  she  failed  to  be  able  to  call  his  face 
into  mental  view.  The  longing  seemed  to  affect 
her  whole  strong  young  body,  so  that  she  felt  her 
heart  beat  in  her  neck  and  down  to  her  finger-ends. 

Suddenly  she  swayed  to  one  side.  She  sat  up, 
alarmed.  A  slight,  abrupt  sense  of  weakness,  of 
want  of  control  over  her  muscles,  announced  that 
to  indulge  in  the  remembrance  of  hours  of  passion 
ate  love,  or  of  joyous  comradeship,  was  perilous 
to  such  absolute  self-command  as  she  well  knew 
she  should  need.  She  recalled  the  old  doctor's  warn- 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  251 

ing.  He  had  said  that  to  give  way  to  emotion 
would  for  a  long  time  to  come  be  likely  to  bring 
about  a  fresh  attack  of  loss  of  self-command.  She 
set  herself  sternly  to  recover  calmness  of  mind,  and 
with  it  the  power  to  reason.  As  she  rose  she  felt 
amazed  at  this  sudden  feebleness.  Resolving  not 
again  to  give  way  to  the  sweetness  and  pain  of  try 
ing  to  live  back  into  the  too  real  recollection  of  the 
days  of  a  supreme  passion,  she  went  in,  and,  to 
her  surprise,  slept  a  deep  and,  as  she  knew  next 
morning,  an  unrefreshing  slumber.  "This  shall  not 
happen  again,"  she  said,  as  she  turned  over  her 
letters  at  breakfast;  and,  in  fact,  unsatisfied  desire 
to  make  her  husband's  murderer  atone  in  suffering 
took  the  place  of  a  more  perilous  form  of  mental 
activity. 

After  breakfast  she  quietly  arranged  her  house 
hold  affairs  for  the  day,  and  then  busied  herself 
in  setting  the  study  in  order,  dusting  it,  with  care 
to  leave  all  things  as  they  had  been. 

At  last  she  sat  down  at  Trescot's  table,  and,  pre 
occupied,  dipped  a  pen  into  the  dry  inkstand.  She 
laid  down  the  pen  and  went  to  get  her  traveling- 
inkstand.  Returning,  she  stood  still  a  moment,  and 
then  turned  to  her  own  table,  and  again  sat  down. 
She  had  the  feeling  that  not  where  he  sat  could  she 
plan  a  course  of  life  so  opposed  to  all  he  held  dear. 
He  would  have  said,  "Forgive;  forget. "  For  a 
minute,  and  for  the  first  time,  the  woman  hesitated. 
She  was  at  the  parting  of  the  ways.  She  looked 
around  her  at  the  memorials  of  a  true  and  noble 
life,  and  forward  at  the  lonely  desert  of  days  and 


252  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

years  without  hope  and  void  of  all  the  joys  that 
belong  to  youth  and  love.  She  did  not  reason- 
she  simply  felt.  "No,"  she  said  aloud;  "I  must  go 
my  way."  From  that  sad  hour  she  held  to  one  un 
changing  resolve. 

First  she  must  see  Coffin,  and  must  know  all  that 
was  possible  of  her  enemy's  life.  How  could  she, 
a  young  woman,  enter  into  it  with  power  to  ruin 
and  make  him  suffer?  She  resolved  to  be  patient. 
Had  it  been  some  lesser  injury,  she  could  have 
made  the  man  love  her  and  then  cast  him  aside  to 
realize  the  pain  of  loss.  She  knew,  as  by  instinct, 
her  power  over  men.  She  dismissed  the  thought  in 
disgust  and  horror,  and,  rising,  walked  about,  and 
at  last  went  into  the  front  parlor,  and,  to  air  the 
long-closed  room,  threw  up  a  sash.  As  she  moved  to 
the  other  window  she  saw  herself  in  a  mirror,  a  tall 
form  in  deep  mourning-dress,  with  a  face  the  whiter 
from  contrast  with  her  black  gown  and  mass  of 
dark  hair.  She  threw  up  the  sash  and  stood  still, 
held  motionless  as  if  by  some  fascination;  for,  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  street,  in  the  brilliant  sun 
shine,  she  saw  John  Greyhurst  walking  slowly  to 
ward  the  town.  He  glanced  over  at  the  house  and 
saw  and  knew  her.  Instantly  quickening  his  pace, 
he  looked  away  and  moved  on. 

Noting  the  suddenly  averted  head,  the  abrupt 
hastening  of  his  steps,  she  looked  after  him,  and 
said  aloud:  "He  feels;  he  is  sensitive."  A  stern 
joy  possessed  her,  and  she  turned  away  satisfied. 
"Now  I  know,"  she  said. 

When  she  went  back  to  the  study  she  saw  Tom 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  253 

Coffin  on  the  back  porch.  She  called  him:  ''Tom,' 
Tom!" 

"I  heard  you  was  here.  I  was  that  sure  you 
would  come  back.  Are  you  going  to  stay,  ma'am?" 

"Yes;  I  do  not  know  how  long.  I  told  you  I 
meant  to  come.  Did  you  keep  my  secret?" 

"I  did." 

"Are  you  doing  well  on  the  bluff?" 

"Why,  Mrs.  Trescot,  I  'm  saving  money.  Never 
did  that  before  in  all  my  life,  and  it  's  all  along  of 
you.  Oh,  we  're  right  well  pleased,  all  of  us." 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  Tom. 

"I  am  very  glad.  And  now  I  want  something. 
I  want  to  know  all  about  that  man,  Tom.  How  he 
spends  his  time.  He  goes  to  his  office,  I  suppose, 
and  to  that  club,  and  to— to  the  court-house.  Does 
he  go  to  any  houses?  Does  he  visit  any  one— any 
woman  ? ' ' 

' '  You  want  me  to  find  out  ?  That  's  easy  enough. ' ' 

"But  he  must  not  know  he  is  watched." 

Tom  smiled.  "All  right."  He  looked  at  her 
and  wondered  what  she  could  mean  to  do.  It 
seemed  simple  to  him— a  rifle-shot,  and  that  would 
end  the  matter.  She  had  said  no.  Her  desire  for 
some  continuity  of  punishment  would  have  been 
foreign  to  his  mountain  code  of  vengeance.  For 
men  of  his  kind  there  was  some  recognized  joy  in 
the  crude  pleasure  of  pipe  and  glass,  of  the  visible 
results  of  the  hunt,  and  of  the  use  of  ax  and  plow. 
The  men  he  knew  had  no  other  joys,  and  to  take 
life  was  to  take  away  all  that  was  valuable,  and 
competently  to  deal  with  a  wrong.  He  left  her,  puz- 


254  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

zled  as  to  what  she  meant  to  do,  but,  as  always,  her 
willing  instrument,  in  small  things  or  in  large. 

On  the  following  day  the  general  found  her  in 
the  parlor. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "we  are  glad  and 
sorry  to  see  you  here  again.  You  are  still  too  pale. 
Are  you  well?" 

"Yes;  I  think  I  may  say  that  I  am  as  strong  as 
I  ever  was.  Sit  down ;  I  want  to  talk  to  you. ' ' 

"Certainly,  my  dear  child.  There  is  a  good  deal 
of  business.  The  water-front  at  the  bend  ought  to 
be  improved,  and— 

' '  Excuse  me,  general,  but  those  matters  may  wait. 
I  have  other  things  to  speak  of,  and,  to  me,  far  more 
important  things." 

He  was  surprised  and  curious.  "Now,  as  always, 
I  am  at  your  disposal." 

"I  asked  you  some  time  ago  to  do  for  me  what 
I  was  sure  you  would  disapprove  of." 

"Yes,  on  the  whole  I  did  disapprove;  and  when 
the  warden  said  he  would  never  consent  I  felt  re 
lieved.  Mrs.  Averill  and  I  considered  it  unwise, 
and  only  to  be  explained  by  the  condition  in  which 
your  illness  left  you.  It  would  have  been  an  im 
propriety,  to  say  no  more." 

"I  do  not  feel  as  you  do,"  she  returned.  "A 
useful,  noble  life  is  ended  by  a  brute's  anger.  He 
lives  on  unpunished.  A  jury  justifies  his  act;  no 
one  remembers.  Is  there  to  be  no  record?  Must 
this  man  live  and  go  his  way  just  as  before?  As 
I  live,  I  do  not  mean  that  he  shall.  If  to  kill  him 
would  satisfy  me,  and  I  had  been  a  man,  I  would 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  255 

have  shot  him  as  I  should  any  other  wild  beast,  and 
not  have  had  a  pang  of  remorse.  But  something  I 
must  do— oh,  something!" 

She  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  the 
figure  of  an  avenging  fate,  splendid  in  her  wrath. 

"My  dear  Constance!  let  me  beg  of  you—" 

"Pardon  me,  let  me  finish.  I  mean  to  make  this 
man  suffer— oh,  as  I  have  suffered;  oh,  more,  if 
that  be  possible !  I  have  now  but  one  purpose  in 
life,  and  to  it  I  mean  to  give  my  strength,  my 
thought,  and,  at  need,  every  dollar  I  have  in  the 
world." 

He  lifted  a  hand  in  appeal:  "God  knows,  dear, 
that  I  feel  for  you ;  but  what  can  you  do  ? " 

He  felt  in  a  larger  way  much  as  Coffin  felt;  but 
this  woman's  talk  of  some  more  refined  vengeance 
struck  him  as  pitiable  in  its  incapacities. 

"What  I  can  do,  general,  I  do  not  know  as  yet. 
I  have  felt,  however,  that  I  wished  you  beforehand 
to  understand  that  if  I  seem  strange  in  what  I 
do,  or,  as  men  see  things,  eccentric,  you  will  not 
consider  me  insane.  I  am  fully  aware  that  you  will 
disapprove.  I  cannot  help  that.  A  man  dies, 
and  a  woman  must  sit  down  and  cry.  I  am  not  so 
made;  I  cannot,  and  I  would  not  if  I  could." 

This  stormy  passion  troubled  him.  It  was  not  like 
any  woman  he  had  ever  known.  There  was  some 
thing  in  it  of  the  deadly  instinct  of  attack  of  a 
wounded  animal— something  not  modern.  Revenge 
had  been  in  his  experience  the  prerogative  of  man. 
He  did  not  know  how  to  answer  her,  and  fell  upon 
petty  futilities.  People  would  talk— she  would 


256  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

surely  be  thought  to  be  crazy.  He  hesitated  to  say 
that  this  vain  dream  of  a  woman  ruining  a  strong 
man  outside  of  the  possibility  of  contact  or  influence 
was  absurd,  and  might  come  to  seem  ridiculous,  even 
with  the  tragedy  behind  it. 

He  moved  her  no  whit.  As  he  talked  she  contin 
ued  to  walk  about  uneasily,  and  at  last  pausing 
before  him,  said:  "I  know  how  you,  how  any  man, 
must  feel  about  what  I  have  said.  If  there  are  men 
fools  enough  to  think  lightly  of  it,  I  swear  to  you 
there  will  be  one  man  who  will  not  laugh  when  I  am 
done  with  him." 

The  general  began  to  think  that  it  might  very  well 
be.  He  said:  "I  should  be  a  poor  friend,  Con 
stance,  if  I  did  not  try  to  stop  you.  Think  it 
over.  Let  Mrs.  Averill  talk  to  you,  and  wait,  my 
dear.  Do  nothing  rash." 

"  Certainly,  general,  I  shall  do  as  you  say.  I  am 
in  no  hurry,  but  nothing  on  earth  will  move  me." 

"I  am  very,  very  sorry." 

"I  could  hardly  have  imagined  that  you  would 
agree  with  me.  May  I  ask  you  if  that  man  is  pros 
perous,  if  people  have  condoned  his  act?" 

He  hesitated.  It  was  unnatural,  disagreeable,  this 
curiosity  about  a  man  who  ought  to  have  passed 
unmentioned  out  of  her  life. 

"You  do  not  want  to  answer  me." 

"Frankly,  I  do  not.  He  and  I  do  not  speak.  If 
ever  he  did,  I  should  call  him  out  and  kill  him." 

"Thank  you.  I  shall  not  urge  you  further.  I 
can  easily  learn  all  I  need  to  learn.  Ask  my  dear 
Mrs.  Averill  to  come  here  at  four  to-day.  I  have 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  257 

the  miniatures  for  her.  I  have  made  myself  un 
pleasant.  You  will  forgive  me,  I  am  sure." 

He  took  her  hand  as  he  rose,  kissed  it  in  the  old- 
fashioned  way,  and  left  her,  feeling  that  he  had 
entirely  failed  to  bring  her  to  reason. 

When  he  related  to  Mrs.  Averill  this  amazing  in 
terview,  she  said:  "It  is  very  sad,  but  it  is  also 
absurd.  I  will  make  her  understand  that,  as  a  wo 
man,  I  feel  with  and  for  her.  It  will  then  be  easy 
to  make  clear  how  utterly  impossible  it  is  for  her 
to  do  anything.  It  is  really  childish." 

The  general  smiled.  "Wait  a  little/'  he  said— 
"wait  until  you  hear  her  talk." 

When  Mrs.  Averill  had  kissed  the  pale  cheek  and 
expressed  pleasure  at  seeing  her  again,  Constance 
gave  her  the  two  miniatures.  They  were  admirably 
done,  and  the  mother's  eyes  filled  as  she  looked  up 
and  thanked  the  kind  thought  which  had  made  them 
hers. 

"And  now,  dear,"  she  said,  "the  general  has 
told  me  of  your  talk.  I  am  a  woman  and  can  enter 
into  your  feelings;  but,  dear,  I  am  a  Christian,  and 
must  plead  with  you,  by  all  that  George  Trescot 
held  dear  and  true,  to  put  aside  these  thoughts 
of  revenge.  They  are  wicked ;  and  even  if  they 
were  not,  it  is  practically  useless  for  you  or  me, 
or  any  woman,  to  think  of  affecting  the  life  of  such 
a  man." 

"But  I  am  not  a  Christian,  Mrs.  Averill." 

"No;  Susan  told  me  that  long  ago,  to  my  regret, 
dear.  But  still  you  must  at  least  feel— 

"Pardon  me,  my  dear  Mrs.  Averill,"  she  broke 

17 


258  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

in.  "I  must  go  my  way,  and  I  mean  to  do  so.  I 
may  fail;  I  think  I  shall  not  fail.  But  let  me  say, 
dear  friend,  once  for  all,  just  this,"  and  she  laid 
a  hand  on  the  knee  of  the  elder  woman.  ' '  I  am  here 
for  a  purpose,  but  I  shall  live  my  life— the  usual 
life.  I  shall  see  you  often,  I  hope;  and  while  here 
I  shall  try  to  do  what  good  I  can  to  those  who  are 
in  need  or  suffering.  All  pain  and  all  human  dis 
tress  appeal  to  me  as  they  never  did  before.  We  will 
never  recur  to  this  subject,  and  yet,  last  of  all,  let 
me  say  just  only  this:  if  a  man  killed  me,  do  you 
think  George  Trescot,  no  matter  what  his  creed, 
would  have  left  him  unpunished?" 

"But  that  is  different,"  said  the  old  lady,  feebly. 

"I  do  not  so  see  it,"  said  Constance.  "We  won't 
talk  about  it  any  more.  Here  are  some  new  flower- 
seeds  and  a  meerschaum  pipe  for  our  dear  general. ' ' 

Mrs.  Averill  thanked  her,  and  they  spoke  of 
other  matters— Susan,  dress,  foreign  travel,  and,  at 
last,  of  the  home  for  the  orphans  of  Confederate 
soldiers.  She— Constance— desired  to  help  it. 

After  a  long  chat,  the  pretty  old  lady  put  on  her 
gloves  and  rose,  quite  conscious  that  she  had  fared  no 
better  than  her  husband.  She  had  been  accustomed 
to  act  in  her  quiet,  sweet-tempered  way  as  a  peace 
making  influence.  Her  gray,  wrinkled,  patient  face 
preached  silent  sermons  of  gentleness  and  endur 
ance.  She  had  lost  children,  fortune,  and  all  that 
helps  us  to  bear  the  inevitable  addition  of  such 
physical  disabilities  as  the  years  bring  to  the  old. 
She  still  retained  a  certain  pleasure  in  her  power 
to  affect  for  good  the  lives  of  the  younger  people, 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  259 

whom,  now  that  the  general  was  once  more  pros 
perous,  she  liked  to  see  about  her— the  young  and 
the  happy.  What  she  had  heard  from  Constance 
was  both  a  novel  revelation  and  a  shock  to  her 
womanly  sense  of  what  was  proper  and  reasonable. 
With  larger  knowledge  and  increased  opportunities 
she  might  be  able  to  turn  this  young  friend  aside 
from  a  course  which  seemed  to  her  both  wrong  and 
foolish.  She,  too,  had  suffered,  and  had  won  at  last 
the  sad  serenity  of  a  sorrow  for  which  this  earth 
has  no  competent  relief,  and  which  looks  for  an 
swer  to  another  world  than  ours.  She  had  nothing 
in  her  own  nature  or  experience  to  explain  either 
the  strength  or  the  defects  of  a  woman  like  Con 
stance  Trescot.  That  she  should  want  to  avenge 
an  injury,  and  yet  earnestly  desire  to  help  the  poor 
and  the  suffering,  seemed  to  Eleanor  Averill  an  in 
credible  attitude  of  mind.  As  she  walked  homeward 
she  consoled  herself  with  the  belief  that  perhaps, 
after  all,  Constance  would  soon  come  to  realize  her 
own  incapacity  and  abandon  her  purpose.  She  had 
learned,  as  the  old  learn,  to  have  great  faith  in  time. 


II 


iREYHURST,  who  had  reflected  not  a 
little  on  the  return  of  Mrs.  Trescot, 
concluded  that  her  large  business  in 
terests  alone  could  have  brought  her 
to  St.  Ann.  She  was  unlikely  to  re 
main  ;  and  even  if  her  stay  should  be  long,  what  did 
it  matter?  On  the  third  day  after  her  return  he 
went  to  his  office  and  began  to  read  his  letters. 
One  in  a  firm,  large-charactered  woman's  hand  in 
terested  him.  He  broke  the  black  seal  of  the  mourn 
ing-paper.  A  yellow  slip  fell  out.  He  read : 

"SIR: 

"The  inclosed  telegram  was  in  the  hand  of  the 
man  you  murdered  at  the  moment  he  was  going 
toward  you  to  offer,  as  before  he  had  no  power  to 
do,  a  friendly,  and  even  generous,  division  of  the 
lands  at  the  bend.  His  blood  is  on  it,  as  I  trust 
it  may  rest  on  your  own  soul. 

"CONSTANCE  TRESCOT. " 

His  first  feeling  was  simply  astonishment.  For 
a  moment  he  held  the  letter  in  act  to  tear  it  up. 
Then,  as  if  that  were  impossible,  he  laid  it  down 
and  mechanically  unfolded  the  telegram  and  read 

260 


CONSTANCE  TBESCOT  261 

it  over  and  over.  It  was  terribly  new  to  him.  The 
general  had  never  spoken  to  him  since  the  day 
of  his  fatal  anger.  He  knew,  of  course,  of  the  more 
recent  and  accepted  proffer  to  Mrs.  Baptiste  to 
divide  the  frontage.  He  sat  stupefied.  He  saw 
the  brown  blood-stains  on  the  paper,  and  let  it  fall. 
The  scene  came  back  to  him.  Yes,  the  man  was 
smiling— he  had  thought  it  the  smile  of  triumph. 
There  he  was,  dead— dead!  He  tore  the  papers 
to  pieces  and  cast  them  into  the  waste-basket  at  his 
side.  A  brief  fury  of  anger  came  over  him.  He 
rose  and  walked  to  and  fro.  "By  heavens,  if  she 
were  a  man!"  Then  he  controlled  himself,  saying: 
"After  all,  what  does  it  matter— a  woman's  re 
venge  ! ' ' 

I  have  said  that  he  was  variously  sensitive.  By 
degrees  he  had  set  aside  and  carefully  rid  himself 
of  even  the  smallest  reminder  of  an  hour  which  he 
deeply  regretted.  He  had  ceased  to  wear  his  revol 
ver;  had  put  it  aside  and  locked  it  up.  He  had 
found  that  the  gray  suit  he  wore  during  the  trial 
revived  a  dark  memory.  He  gave  it  away.  And 
now,  the  feeble  ingenuity  of  a  woman's  hatred  had 
brought  back  in  dreadful  clearness  all  that  time 
had  mercifully  dealt  with. 

He  went  out  and  forced  himself  to  attend  to  the 
business  of  the  day.  He  stayed  late  at  the  club, 
seeking  society,  unwilling  to  face  the  solitude  of 
his  own  house. 

As  he  walked  homeward  in  the  darkness  he  took 
refuge  in  that  which  had  somewhat  helped  him  at 
an  earlier  period.  During  his  trial  men  swore  to 


262  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

their  belief  that  the  younger  man  was  in  act  to 
draw  his  pistol.  This,  as  he  thought  of  it  in  cold 
blood,  justified  his  own  action  as  defensive.  He 
clung  to  this  view  of  the  matter;  set  it  before  his 
mind  as  true,  and,  with  sophistry  which  was  scarcely 
self-convincing,  so  manipulated  the  facts  that  at 
last  mere  repetition  of  the  mental  states  did  as 
sist  him  to  escape  from  the  self-reproach  which 
fell  upon  him  when  Aver  ill  had  struck  him  with 
the  verdict  of  a  man  whom  all  men  honored.  The 
telegram  and  Mrs.  Trescot's  letter  had  forced  him 
again  to  think  it  all  over.  He  realized  how  small 
had  been  his  victory  over  the  recording  power  of 
memory.  He  had  been  at  the  mercy  of  a  slip  of 
paper— and,  at  once,  that  which  chanced  a  year  ago 
was  to  him  as  if  it  had  happened  yesterday.  At 
times  he  felt  competent  to  defend  and  excuse  his 
action;  at  others  he  suffered  the  anguish  of  such 
regret  as  was  inevitable  in  an  imaginative  man,  who 
felt  keenly  the  accusation  of  having  taken  advantage 
of  a  man  who  carried  no  arms  and  was,  to  some  ex 
tent,  incapable  of  protecting  himself. 

By  degrees,  as  the  days  went  by,  he  comforted 
himself  with  the  idea  that  here  at  least  was  the  end. 
He  had,  too,  at  times  an  indistinct  feeling  that  there 
was  cruelty  in  thus  tormenting  a  man  who  had  bit 
terly  repented;  and  the  memory  of  the  beauty  and 
grace  of  the  woman,  and  his  immense  admiration  of 
her,  barbed  and  poisoned  the  shaft  which  had  gone 
so  surely  to  its  mark. 

Meanwhile,  Constance  took  up  her  life,  but  with 
more  or  less  thought  of  its  supreme  purpose.  She 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  263 

heard  from  Coffin  what  were  the  habits  of  Grey- 
hurst's  days,  and  began  to  plan  ways  of  knowing 
more  of  his  life.  At  first  all  thought  of  him  dis 
turbed  her  emotionally;  but  this  she  learned  to  put 
aside.  She  was  frequently  at  the  general's,  but 
would  go  nowhere  else.  He  had  found  for  her  rid 
ing-horses,  and  an  old  slave  for  a  groom,  so  that  soon 
her  figure  in  the  black  riding-habit  became  familiar 
in  and  near  the  town.  In  a  word,  she  lived,  or 
seemed  to  live,  the  ordinary  life  of  a  young  widow 
of  more  than  usual  means. 

No  one  she  knew  mentioned  Greyhurst,  and,  ex 
cept  the  Averills  and  Coffin,  no  one  suspected  that 
she  was  doing  or  thinking  otherwise  than  the  two 
or  three  sad  women  in  St.  Ann  who,  like  herself, 
were  suffering  from  the  cruel  consequences  of  some 
deadly  quarrel. 

Toward  the  close  of  her  second  week  at  St.  Ann, 
Mrs.  Averill  asked  her  to  be  present  at  a  meeting  of 
women  who  were  interested  in  their  modest  home 
for  the  orphans  of  Confederate  soldiers,  to  which 
Constance  had  promised  help  from  Susan  and  her 
self.  Contact  with  the  Averills,  and  the  misery  she 
had  seen  as  the  direct  or  indirect  result  of  war,  had 
lessened  her  own  strong  partizan  feeling.  Disposed 
by  nature  to  be  generous,  she  was,  moreover,  eager 
to  make  friends  and  secure  allies;  and  thus,  al 
though  rather  reluctant  to  face  the  many  she  would 
meet,  she  decided  at  last  to  accept  Mrs.  Averill's 
invitation.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  she 
found  herself  among  some  two  dozen  ladies,  old 
and  young.  Many  of  them  she  had  met,  and  all 


264  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

were  either  anxious  to  express  their  sympathy  by 
a  kindly  greeting,  or  were  merely  curious  to  see  the 
rich  widow  who  had  so  strangely  elected  to  return 
to  St.  Ann. 

Mrs.  Averill  explained  that  the  meeting  was  in 
formal  and  designed  to  assist  the  male  managers 
of  the  home.  She  spoke,  for  Constance's  informa 
tion,  of  the  good  it  had  done,  and  of  the  great  diffi 
culty  they  had  in  carrying  it  on.  A  lady  read  the 
quarterly  statement  of  the  treasurer,  and  the  small- 
ness  of  the  deficit  gave  Constance  a  sad  sense  of 
their  limited  resources.  Several  women  offered  mod 
est  aid,  and  then  there  was  the  usual  silence. 
Constance  whispered  to  Mrs.  Averill,  who  said: 
"Certainly,  my  dear.  Ask  what  questions  you 
please. ' ' 

Constance  rose.  "Mrs.  Averill  permits  me  to 
ask  for  some  little  information.  May  I  inquire  how 
many  children  you  have  in  your  home?" 

From  this  she  went  on  in  a  businesslike  way  to 
put  herself  in  possession  of  all  the  facts  she  re 
quired  to  know. 

"I  have  had,"  she  said,  "some  acquaintance  with 
an  institution  like  yours,  and  now  may  I  learn 
finally  how  much  per  head  per  day  it  costs  you?" 

No  one  was  quite  prepared  to  answer;  but  Miss 
Bland,  a  spinster  she  had  met  before,  said:  "We 
can  say  that  if  we  had  a  thousand  dollars  a  year, 
with  our  present  subscriptions,  it  would  be  enough 
to  support  all  our  home  has  room  for." 

Constance  then  said:  "My  sister  and  I  shall  be 
most  glad  to  give,  between  us,  that  amount  for  five 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  265 

years;  and  probably  we  may  be  able  then  to  secure 
the  same  sum  to  you  as  a  permanent  income." 

There  were  exclamations  of  pleasure  and  surprise, 
and  warm  and  grateful  words  as  they  turned  to 
thank  her.  At  last,  on  the  suggestion  of  further 
business,  Mrs.  March,  a  stout,  elderly  dame,  and 
their  chairman,  said:  "We  shall  ask  the  gentlemen, 
our  managers,  to  offer  you  formal  thanks,  Mrs. 
Trescot,  for  your  generous  help.  As  Southern  ladies 
we  thank  you,  and  may  I  venture  to  add  that  every 
one  in  St.  Ann  appreciates  the  kind  and  liberal  way 
in  which  you  and  Miss  Hood  have  dealt  with  the 
squatters  and,  indeed,  with  all  those  with  whom  you 
have  had  to  deal." 

Mrs.  March  drew  back  her  chair  and,  smoothing 
out  her  gown,  sat  down,  well  pleased  with  her  lit 
tle  speech. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  March,"  said  Constance.  "It 
is  quite  unnecessary  to  thank  us  formally.  I  have 
here  a  blank  check ;  I  will  fill  it  out  for  the  first  six 
months.  And  your  little  deficit  I  shall  like  to  make 
good  as  my  personal  gift." 

Miss  Bland,  who  sat  on  her  right,  said:  "Oh, 
thank  you;  and  don't  you  want  to  see  our  printed 
report?" 

Mrs.  Averill  shook  her  head ;  but  the  signal  came 
too  late.  Constance  said:  "Yes,  certainly,  Miss 
Bland;  I  am  much  interested."  She  glanced  at 
the  first  page  and  saw  that  the  managers  were  all 
ex-officers  of  the  Confederacy,  and  that  the  seventh 
name  was  John  Greyhurst's.  A  faint  flush  rose  to 
cheek  and  forehead.  "Thank  you,"  she  said  as, 


266  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

with  an  effort  to  seem  calm,  she  returned  the  pam 
phlet.  "I  do  not  want  it." 

''Oh,  keep  it,"  said  Miss  Bland;  "I  have  another 
copy. ' ' 

"I  said,  'I  do  not  want  it,'  "  returned  Constance, 
with  emphasis. 

Mrs.  Averill  frowned,  and  Mrs.  Dudley,  seated 
behind  Miss  Bland,  whispered  to  her,  with  vicious 
satisfaction:  "Take  care,  Eliza!  How  could  you?" 

"I  do  not  see  what  I  have  done." 

As  Mrs.  Trescot  rejected  the  pamphlet  she  sat 
up,  quite  too  visibly  disturbed  to  escape  the  notice 
of  those  who  were  within  view  of  her  face.  With 
the  persistency  of  the  dull-witted,  Miss  Bland,  an 
noyed  at  Mrs.  Dudley's  reproof,  exclaimed:  "Oh, 
do  take  it!" 

Constance  turned  toward  her,  saying  so  as  to 
be  generally  heard:  "I  know,  Miss  Bland,  that  it 
could  not  have  occurred  to  you  that  among  the 
names  of  the  managers  is  that  of—"  and  she 
stopped,  controlling  herself. 

Mrs.  Dudley,  leaning  over  the  back  of  Miss 
Bland 's  chair,  whispered,  "It  is  Greyhurst!  How 
could  you ! ' ' 

"Oh,  I  never  thought!"  cried  Miss  Bland,  awk 
wardly  apologetic.  "I  am  sorry.  I  did  n't  re 
member.  ' ' 

'  *  I  was  sure  of  that.  Do  not  let  it  trouble  you. ' ' 
Constance's  voice  broke,  and  then,  recovering,  she 
added,  "You  have  really  done  me  a  service." 

"You  may  be  sure,  Mrs.  Trescot,"  said  Mrs.  Dud 
ley,  "that  we  never  thought— we— " 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  267 

" Excuse  me  if  I  interrupt  you,"  returned  Mrs. 
Trescot.  "After  what  I  have  just  learned,  I  must 
ask  you  to  consider  our  gift  as  entirely  in  the  hands 
of  the  visiting  ladies,  and  not  at  the  disposal  of  the 
male  managers." 

Mrs.  Averill  said  at  once:  "It  shall  be  as 
you  wish,  dear.  The  gentlemen  have  been  so  in 
active  that  it  did  not  occur  to  any  of  us  to  think 
of  them.  The  man  referred  to  was  put  on  the 
board  three  years  ago,  when  it  was  first  formed. 
It  should  have  occurred  to  us;  I  ought  to  have 
told  you." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  when  Mrs.  March 
said:  "You  may  rest  assured,  Mrs.  Trescot,  that  no 
one  here  fails  to  feel  with  you;  and  if,  under  the 
circumstances,  you  would  rather  not  give  at  all,  we 
should  all  understand  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Constance,  proudly;  "you  are 
most  considerate.  But  you  are  welcome  to  all  we 
can  do,  and  if  you  find  the  situation  embarrassing, 
as  may  be  the  case,  I  will  write  to  Colonel  Dudley 
and  explain  it  myself.  I  see  that  he  is  chairman  of 
the  board." 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  said  several  women.  "By  no 
means;  it  is  quite  unnecessary." 

Constance  smiled  in  her  cold  way,  shaking  her 
head  as  she  spoke,  and  rising. 

"I  must  go.  It  is— it  was  a  little  too  much  for 
me.  And  you  are  all  so  good.  I  must  go.  Good-by. 

Mrs.  Averill  went  with  her  to  the  outer  door. 
"Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  so  sorry— and  in  my  house,  too; 
I  am  so  very  sorry ! ' ' 


268  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"I  am  not  very  sure  that  I  am,"  said  Constance, 
as  she  kissed  her  and  went  away. 

Mrs.  Averill  looked  after  her  in  puzzled  amaze 
ment,  and  then  returned  to  the  room  where  her 
friends  were  busily  discussing  this  unpleasant  in 
cident. 

"  It  is  just  as  well  ;  she  had  to  know  soon  or  late,  '  ' 
said  Mrs.  March.  "Of  course  he  will  hear  of  it— 
and  I,  for  one,  hope  tfeat  he  will  hear  of  it." 

Others  were  of  her  way  of  thinking,  and  in  a 
dozen  homes  that  evening  the  sad  story  was  revived 
and  Constance's  generosity  praised,  and  her  sad 
fate  pitied  anew. 

That  evening  she  wrote  to  Mrs.  March,  inclosing  a 
copy  of  a  note  sent  to  Colonel  Dudley.  She  could 
not  leave  the  ladies  in  a  situation  which  obliged 
them  to  make  to  the  managers  an  explanation  which 
should  properly  come  from  her. 

To  the  president  of  the  board  of  the  home  she 
wrote  : 


COLONEL  DUDLEY: 
"My  sister  and  I  are  much  interested  in  your  excel 
lent  charity,  and  we  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  aiding 
it  to  the  extent  of  one  thousand  dollars  a  year  for 
five  years.  Then,  or  sooner,  we  hope  to  endow  it 
with  enough  to  represent  the  same  income.  An 
accident  brought  to  my  knowledge  the  fact  that 
one  of  your  members  is  the  man  who  murdered  my 
husband.  You  will,  I  am  sure,  understand  why  I 
have  felt  it  to  be  impossible  for  me  to  confide  our 
gladly  given  help  to  a  board  of  which  he  is  a  mem- 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  269 

ber.  I  have  placed  the  money,  and  shall  in  future 
place  it,  in  the  hands  of  the  visiting  committee  of 
ladies,  for  their  use,  and  theirs  alone.  My  own 
strong  feeling,  and  my  late  husband's  great  regard 
for  you,  will,  I  know,  excuse  to  you  my  very  frank 
statement.  '  ' 

A  courteous  note  acknowledging  the  receipt  of 
her  letter  was  all  she  heard  of  it  for  a  week  or  more. 

Susan  Hood  had  twice  put  off  her  journey  to  St. 
Ann,  having  no  reason  to  leave  the  home  she  loved 
except  her  affection  for  Constance.  She  had  re 
luctantly  come  to  the  conclusion  that  marriage  and 
trouble  had  in  some  way  set  up  barriers  between 
them.  She  had  been  the  one  strong,  and  even  jeal 
ous,  affection  of  Constance's  younger  life,  and  now 
sadly  felt  that  it  had  incomprehensibly  lessened, 
and  that  her  sister  seemed  to  have  been  incapable  of 
more  than  one  such  relation  at  a  time. 

After  Trescot's  death  Constance  had  begun  again 
to  rely  on  her,  and  to  defer  to  her  opinion  on  the 
lesser  matters  of  life.  But  all  through  the  summer 
and  their  many  months  of  travel  she  had  felt  that 
the  mind  once  so  open  to  her  was  hiding  and  cher 
ishing  thoughts  which  she,  Susan,  was  not  allowed 
to  share.  All  her  kindly  attempts  to  enter  into  the 
confidence  of  her  sister  failed,  and  now,  being  about 
to  join  her,  she  wrote,  in  some  anxiety  and  distress  : 


DEAR  CONNY: 

"Why  you  so  obstinately  insisted  upon  returning 
to  a  place  which  must  be  full  of  painful  memories 


270  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

I  have  never  yet  learned.  Even  for  me  it  must  ever 
be  hateful.  But  you  are  all  I  have  in  life ;  whither 
you  go  I  shall  go.  It  is  my  duty,  and  I  shall  make  it 
my  pleasure.  That  is  all— except,  dear,  that  I  am 
sure  you  are  bent  on  something  which  you  have, 
so  far,  concealed,  and  which  I  hope  to  understand. 
I  have  respected  your  reticence,  assured  that  it 
must  have  a  reasonable  basis;  but  we  once  lived 
a  frank  and  undivided  life,  and  your  attitude  to  me 
all  summer  has  made  me  most  unhappy.  Let  us 
be,  dear,  as  we  once  were. 

"Try  to  get  a  good  horse  for  me.  Love  to  the 
Averills.  I  shall  arrive  on  November  2,  D.  V. 

"Yours  always,  SUSAN. 

"October  25, 1871." 

It  was  near  to  the  close  of  the  month  when  Con 
stance  received  this  letter,  and  she  knew  at  once 
that  further  concealment  would  be  impossible.  She 
was  equally  well  aware  that  Susan  would  be 
shocked  and  grieved  at  a  course  of  conduct  so  op 
posed  to  the  beliefs  which  governed  her  own  ac 
tions.  Constance  was  sorry,  but  it  did  not  affect 
her  resolve. 

She  was  always  at  home  to  the  increasing  number 
of  women,  young  and  old,  who  called  upon  her.  Al 
though  her  piano  remained  closed,  she  made  her 
house  interesting  to  people  who  had  few  chances 
of  intellectual  enjoyment,  lending  books  and  maga 
zines,  and  when  alone  busying  herself  with  hanging 
prints  and  water-colors  brought  from  abroad.  In 
the  afternoons  she  rode  in  all  weathers. 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  271 

So  far  she  had  won  her  way,  as  she  had  meant  to 
do,  making  her  rather  excessive  bounty  to  the  poor 
and  sick  the  more  gracious  by  the  attraction  of  man 
ner  which  made  those  whom  she  tactfully  obliged 
partners  of  the  honest  joy  she  felt,  especially  in  help 
ing  the  sad  and  hopelessly  stranded  women  of  her 
own  class. 

Her  desire  to  know  more  of  her  enemy  than 
Coffin  could  tell  her  found  at  last  an  ally.  Just 
before  Susan's  arrival,  she  had  come  from  a  long 
ride,  and  met  at  her  door  a  woman  whose  face  and 
worn  look  had  interested  her  for  a  moment  at  the 
meeting  in  Mrs.  Averill's  home.  Seeing  her  in 
her  riding-dress,  the  woman  would  have  gone  away, 
but  Constance  said:  "No,  I  am  quite  at  leisure. 
Do  come  in.  You  are,  I  think,  the  matron  of  the 
home.  I  saw  you  at  the  meeting." 

"Yes;  I  am  Miss  Althea  Le  Moine." 

She  was  dressed  in  clothes  which  had  evidently 
been  long  in  use.  Her  air  of  furtive  apprehension 
struck  Constance.  "A  provincial  lady,"  was  the 
hostess's  conclusion,  as  they  sat  down.  Constance 
rang,  saying:  "I  have  the  habit  of  indulging  my 
self  with  a  cup  of  tea  after  I  ride.  May  I  tempt 
you?" 

The  tea  was  brought,  and  the  toast  and  cake 
evidently  enjoyed,  while  they  talked  of  the  home 
and  its  needs,  or  Constance  turned  over  her  Flor 
entine  photographs,  setting  at  ease  a  woman  whom 
she  felt  to  be  somewhat  embarrassed. 

At  last  Miss  Althea  said:  "I  have  come  to  you, 
Mrs.  Trescot,  to  ask  a  little  help." 


272  CONSTANCE  TBESCOT 

1 1  Now  that  is  very  kind  of  you, ' '  said  her  hostess. 
1  'Let  us  talk.  What  is  it?" 

It  seemed  that  she  owned  a  small  house  left  to 
her  by  a  brother  who  had  fallen  at  Lookout  Moun 
tain.  "He  was  a  Confederate  soldier,"  she  added. 
A  mortgage  upon  it  was  one  of  the  smaller  debts 
due  to  Mr.  Hood.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Trescot  would 
kindly  wait.  The  interest  was  in  arrears— the  rent 
was  ill  paid;  but  she  hoped— 

Constance  interrupted  her.  "I  shall  have  plea 
sure  in  speaking  of  it  to  General  Averill.  I  think 
that  it  has  already  been  considered— and,  by  the 
way,  how  much  is  it?" 

"Five  hundred  dollars;  and  really  the  house  is 
all  I  have." 

"Make  your  mind  easy;  when  my  sister  arrives 
we  will  do  something  to  relieve  you,  and  will  cer 
tainly  cancel  the  back  interest.  Now  don't  cry. 
You  have  given  me  a  pleasure,  and  if  you  cry  I 
shall  cry,  and  I  hate  to  cry.  Let  us  talk  of  some 
thing  else." 

"How  can  I  thank  you?  I  have  been  so  troubled 
—you  won't  mind  my  telling  you  the  rest?" 

"I?     No,  indeed.     What  is  it?" 

"One  of  my  brothers  was  in  the  Northern  army. 
He  lived  in  Kentucky.  He  died  some  time  ago. 
Last  month  the  ladies  found  out  that  he  was  a 
Federal  officer,  and  now  I  am  so  afraid  they  will 
think— oh,  one  of  them  said  I  ought  not  to  be 
kept  on." 

"No  one  will  disturb  you.  You  are  needlessly 
alarmed.  I  will  speak  to  Mrs.  March.  You  may 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  273 

feel  entirely  at  ease.  Is  there  anything  else  I  can 
do  for  you?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Miss  Althea,  as  she  rose.  "I 
do  think  I  shall  sleep  to-night.  I  wish  there  was 
anything  I  could  do  to  show  you  how  grateful  I 
am." 

"Stop,"  said  Mrs.  Trescot.  "Sit  down.  You 
can  help  me.  But,  first,  I  want  to  ask  you  to  con 
sider  what  I  shall  say  as  confidential— absolutely 
confidential." 

"Yes,  of  course."  Miss  Althea  was  curious,  and 
her  narrowing  life  had  left  her  little  of  interest. 

"I  learned  lately,  as  you  know,  that  the  man 
who  killed  my  husband  is  one  of  the  managers  of 
the  home.  It  embarrassed  me.  You  can  under 
stand  that,  and  why  it  must  keep  me  from  visiting 
at  the  home  as  I  should  like  to  do." 

"But  he  never  comes  there,  Mrs.  Trescot.  At 
the  visitors'  meeting  yesterday  Mrs.  Dudley  said 
that  the  colonel  had  told  him  that,  as  he  never  at 
tended  their  meetings,  he  ought  to  resign,  and  he 
has  done  so." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Trescot.  "I  have  rea 
sons—very  good  reasons— for  desiring  to  know  more 
of  this  man.  I  have  trusted  you;  and  now,  when 
you  hear  anything  of  interest  about  him,  I  want 
you  to  come  and  tell  me." 

Miss  Althea,  much  astonished,  promised  to  be 
watchful,  and  went  away  comforted,  but  with  her 
curiosity  ungratified. 

On  the  following  day  Greyhurst  recognized  in 
the  morning  mail  the  black-edged  envelop  and  the 

18 


274  CONSTANCE  TKESCOT 

writing  of  Constance  Trescot.  He  threw  it  on  the 
table.  He  had  again  the  feeling  that  in  a  variety 
of  ways  he  had  been  made  to  atone  for  a  minute 
of  passionate  resentment  and  the  fatal  action  in 
which  it  had  resulted.  Always  what  men  called 
thin-skinned,  and  feeling  keenly  what  would  have 
affected  others  but  little,  he  had  become,  of  late, 
less  obviously  irritable,  but  even  more  sensitive. 
The  hint  to  resign  from  the  board,  which  a  year 
before  he  would  have  angrily  resented,  humiliated 
him  the  more  when,  hearing  later  of  Mrs.  Trescot 's 
gift  to  the  home,  he  knew  at  once  what  hand  had 
struck  him.  He  knew,  too,  as  he  sat  at  his  table, 
that  to  burn  this  letter  would  be  the  wiser  course. 
He  could  not.  It  held  him  as  with  a  spell,  as  a 
serpent  charms  a  bird,  both  drawing  and  repelling. 
He  tore  it  open  at  last,  and  an  inclosure  fell  out. 
For  a  moment  he  held  it  unread;  and  then,  as  if 
compelled,  read: 

"Sm: 

"The  inclosed  is  a  copy  of  a  letter  my  husband 
left  on  his  desk  the  morning  of  October  7,  1870. 
You  will  see  that  he  meant  to  sacrifice  his  position 
as  my  uncle's  agent  if  Mr.  Hood  still  refused  to 
deal  generously  with  your  clients.  My  husband's 
murder  and  my  uncle's  death  left  to  my  sister  and 
to  me  the  privilege  of  generous  dealing,  of  which 
your  hand  deprived  George  Trescot. 

"CONSTANCE  TRESCOT." 

"Curse  the  woman !"  he  cried.  "I  was  a  fool  to 
read  it."  He  crumpled  Trescot 's  letter  in  his  hands 


CONSTANCE  TKESCOT  275 

as  he  sat,  and  then  smoothed  it  out  and  read  it  again, 
He  never  for  a  moment  doubted  that  it  told  the 
truth.  He  was  a  man  of  too  easy  morals,  but  capa 
ble  of  affection  and  even  of  love.  A  new  and  over 
whelming  realization  of  what  he  had  done  to  this 
woman  swept  over  him  in  a  storm  of  self-reproach 
and  pity. 

He  sat  with  his  face  in  his  hands,  his  elbows  on 
the  table,  the  copy  of  Trescot's  letter  before  him. 
He  lit  a  match  and  saw  that  his  hand  shook  as  he 
held  the  two  papers  over  it  and  they  slowly  burned 
away.  Then,  rising,  he  lighted  a  cigar  and  threw 
himself  on  a  sofa.  The  cigar  went  out.  He  cast 
it  away.  How  would  this  end?  There  must  be  a 
limit  to  the  ability  of  this  woman  to  torture  him, 
and  to  his  own  capacity  to  suffer.  After  all,  he 
was  a  man  and  she  but  a  woman.  The  matter  of 
his  resignation  from  the  board  of  the  home  was  a 
trifle,  and  he  was  prospering  as  never  before.  It 
was  not  so  easy  to  deal  with  the  horrible  power 
these  letters  had  to  bring  back  emotions  which  time 
had  helped  to  render  less  poignant.  He  had  a  bad 
memory  for  faces ;  but  now,  as  he  lay,  he  saw  again 
the  smiling  young  fellow  approaching  with  his  mes 
sage  of  peace  and  kindness.  He  might  have  under 
stood  even  then;  but  long  years  of  unrestraint  had 
combined  with  the  bitterness  of  defeat  to  ruin  him. 
He  rose  and,  returning  to  his  table,  tried  to  lose 
himself  in  the  enforced  study  of  an  important  case. 
It  was  vain.  He  went  out  to  a  stable  near  by  and 
mounted  a  horse  he  had  just  bought.  It  proved 
unruly,  and  a  furious  ride  brought  back  the  horse 


276  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

tired  and  the  rider  relieved,  more  at  ease,  and  with 
a  renewed  sense  of  mastery. 

His  life  was  too  busy  to  leave  him  large  leisure 
for  painful  reflection.  He  had  cases  to  try,  and 
one  which  called  him  away  to  the  capital  of  the 
State.  He  was  gone  for  a  week.  His  political  am 
bitions  also  claimed  a  part  of  his  time,  as  he  hoped 
in  a  year  to  be  a  successful  candidate  for  the  legis 
lature,  and  would  then  be  absent  for  long  periods. 

Meanwhile,  in  one  and  another  way,  from  Coffin 
and  from  the  gossip  Althea  Le  Moine  willingly  and 
in  wonder  brought  to  Constance,  she  knew  of  Grey- 
hurst's  habits  and  expectations,  and  silently  brooded 
over  plans  of  disturbing  her  prey,  not  as  yet  fully 
realizing  her  power,  nor  comprehending  how  far 
the  sensitive  nature  of  the  man  was  aiding  her 
purpose. 


Ill 


1USAN  HOOD  had  been  a  week  at  St. 
Ann  before  she  was  able  to  learn  any 
thing  of  the  design,  so  steadily  held, 
that  had  brought  Constance  back  to 
a  place  which  she,  at  least,  wished 
never  to  see  again. 

She  found  the  house  made  pretty  and  far  more 
comfortable,  and  a  part  of  the  back  porch  converted 
into  a  conservatory.  There  were  riding-horses,— 
the  best  they  had  ever  had,— and,  in  fact,  every  sign 
of  intention  to  make  St.  Ann  a  place  of  long,  if 
not  permanent,  residence. 

It  seemed  also  to  Susan  that  there  was  more 
cordiality  in  the  many  women  and  the  few  men  who 
dropped  in  after  their  easy  Southern  way.  Evidently 
there  was  here  some  change.  It  had  never  been 
her  sister's  habit  or  desire  to  be  on  terms  of  cor 
dial  relation  to  society  at  large,  so  that  her  present 
absence  of  reserve,  and  her  rather  watchful  eager 
ness  to  please  everybody,  for  a  time  puzzled  the  elder 
woman. 

No  one  entered  Trescot's  library  except  Con 
stance.  She  herself  kept  it  dusted,  neat,  and  un 
changed.  Susan  understood  why,  being  Constance, 
she  should  spend  daily  certain  hours  alone  where 

277 


278  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

Trescot  had  lived  with  her  and  his  books.  "It 
would  not  have  been  my  way,"  said  Susan;  "but, 
then,  I  am  commonplace."  She  thought  unwhole 
some  her  sister's  attitude  in  the  presence  of  a  great 
calamity,  and  found,  too,  something  that  seemed 
to  her  false  in  the  contrasted  aspects  of  Constance's 
life.  Then,  as  usual  with  her,  she  convicted  herself 
of  ignorant  want  of  charity,  having  never  been  in 
love;  and  said  she  must  really  rid  herself  of  what 
she  called  cynicism— as  if  the  cynical  are  them 
selves  ever  conscious  of  the  quality. 

A  week  after  her  arrival  they  were  seated  alone 
before  the  fire,  now  grateful  at  close  of  day  in  the 
November  weather. 

"Constance,"  said  Susan,  "tell  the  maid  not  to 
let  in  any  visitors.  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  We  are 
so  rarely  alone,  and  this  constant  effort  to  be  agree 
able  to  people  you  certainly  were  once  far  from 
liking  is  rather  surprising." 

Constance,  ignoring  a  part  of  her  sister's  indict 
ment,  said:  "My  dear,  you  can't  choose  here  whom 
you  will  see.  I  never  refuse  to  see  people.  They 
don't  understand  it.  At  St.  Ann  you  are  always 
at  home  if  you  are  in." 

"You  must  have  changed  your  ways,  Conny." 

"Yes,  I  have,"  she  returned,  with  a  glance  at 
Susan,  who  was  busily  cutting  the  leaves  of  a  book. 

She  was  at  once  aware  that  it  would  not  long  be 
possible  to  hide  from  so  acute  an  observer  as  Susan 
what  she  was  doing,  and  why  she  had  returned  to 
St.  Ann.  Indeed,  she  confessed  to  herself  a  cer 
tain  prospect  of  relief  in  being  able  to  break  down 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  279 

the  barriers  of  reserve  which  she  had  set  up.  The 
old  affection,  strangely  weakened  by  her  marriage 
and  her  incapacity  to  care  deeply  for  more  than 
one  person  at  a  time,  was  returning  in  full  force. 
When  she  had  confessed  that,  as  Susan  said,  she  had 
changed,  both  were  silent  for  a  moment,  when  Susan 
returned : 

"You  have  been  unlike  my  Constance  all  summer. 
I  can  understand  that  grief  like  yours  may  take 
many  forms;  but  while  abroad  you  would  see  no 
one,  not  even  the  most  interesting  people ;  here  you 
see  every  one,  even  that  plaintive  little  shrivel  of 
a  woman,  Miss  Althea.  What  brought  you  here, 
Constance?" 

"I  knew  that  you  would  ask.  It  is  very  simple. 
A  man  has  murdered  my  husband  and  utterly 
wrecked  my  life.  I  tried— oh,  very  hard!— to  ac 
cept  it  as  other  women  accept  such  things.  I  could 
not.  I  know  I  shall  shock  you  when  I  say  that 
for  a  time  I  thought  of  suicide.  Then  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  must  kill  him.  If  I  had  been  a  man 
he  would  have  been  dead  to-day." 

"Oh,  sister!    How  can  you  say  such  things?" 

Taking  no  notice  of  the  gentle  protest,  Constance 
continued : 

"I  gave  it  up  because  death  is  no  punishment; 
it  merely  destroys  the  power  to  feel  and  suffer.  I 
want  that  man  to  feel  such  anguish  as  he  brought 
into  my  life,  and  I  want  to  know  that  he  suffers. 
I  came  here  resolved  to  find  some  way  to  make  him 
wretched.  I  know  now  that  he  is  sensitive.  It 
seems  incredible,  but  he  is.  And  let  me  say  once 


280  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

for  all  that  I  shall  go  my  way,  and  I  shall  succeed— 
I  know  I  shall  succeed  in  making  his  life  unbear 
able—oh,  such  as  he  has  made  mine!" 

Susan  had  thought  of  many  explanations  of  her 
sister's  return,  but  certainly  not  of  this.  She  had 
ceased  using  the  paper-knife,  and,  as  Constance 
spoke  with  increasing  passion,  closed  the  book.  A 
look  at  the  stern,  set  face,  so  white,  so  beautiful, 
made  the  elder  woman  sure  that  here  was  a  side  of 
character  which  was  serious  and  new  to  her,  and  not 
to  be  dealt  with  lightly.  Turning  to  her  sister, 
she  exclaimed:  "Dear,  dear  sister,  drop  this;  come 
away  with  me.  Let  us  go  abroad  again." 
"No." 

"But  it  is  horrible,  and  what  can  you  do?  Think 
how  that  dear  fellow  would  have  felt.  Think  what 
he  did  feel  even  in  the  face  of  insult;  how  patiently 
he  bore  with  the  behavior  of  these  people.  Oh, 
Conny!" 

"You  may  rest  assured,  Susan,  that  I  have  thought 
of  all  that;  but  I  am  not  like  you— nor,  alas!  like 
him.  I  have  no  beliefs  which  teach  me  to  sit  down 
and  cry  and  pretend  to  forgive.  I  don't  believe  that 
any  one  ever  does  forgive  a  wrong  so  cruel.  I, 
at  least,  cannot,  and  I  never  will— never!" 

"You  can  do  nothing.  Your  lives  are  far  apart. 
What  can  you  do?  Even  if  revenge  were  right, 
you  are  helpless." 

It  seemed  to  Susan's  common  sense  past  belief. 
"And,  dear,"  she  went  on,  "suppose  the  impos 
sible;  suppose  you  ruin  this  wretch,  make  him  suf 
fer,  what  good  will  it  do?" 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  281 

"It  will  make  me  happy— as  happy  as  I  can  ever 
be." 

" Happy,  Constance!  Can  revenge  bring  happi 
ness?  Will  it  not  serve  only  to  keep  open  wounds 
which  ought  to  close?  Does  it  not  keep  in  your 
mind  thoughts  of  a  bad  man,  in  place  of  the  beauty 
and  nobleness  of  the  man  whose  death  you  wish  to 
avenge?  To  be  in  thought  a  murderer— to  wish 
to  kill— that  seems  to  me  so  dreadful  that  I  ask 
myself  if  you  can  be  your  own  self,  or  if  disease  or 
shock  has  changed  you.  Let  it  all  go— oh,  dear 
Conny,  let  it  go.  Leave  it  to  God  to  deal  with  this 
man.  Be  sure  that  in  the  end  he  will  repay.  He 
has  his  ways." 

Constance  stood  up.  "His  ways— yes.  Suppose 
I  am  the  instrument  of  his  justice.  Why  not  ?  How 
do  you  know?  That  seems  horrible  to  you;  but  I 
can't  help  it;  we  have  no  common  ground.  I  have 
love,  and  loss,  and  hate  ;  you  have  never  known  them. 
Leave  me  to  do  what  I  think  right,  for  neither 
man  nor  woman  can  turn  me  nor  stop  me.  I  will 
never  willingly  speak  of  this  again,  and  neither 
must  you." 

Puzzled,  worried,  and  hurt,  Susan  saw  that  to 
reason  would  be  vain;  that  the  appeal  of  affection 
was  thus  lightly  put  aside  filled  her  with  slowly 
gathering  anger. 

"I  shall  do  now  as  you  say;  but  I  make  no 
promises.  You  surely  do  not  expect  me  to  help 
you." 

' '  I  do  not.  I  want  you  to  be  the  dear,  good  woman 
you  are.  I  shall  neither  ask  nor  need  help." 


282  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"You  certainly  will  not  get  it  from  me;  I  think 
it  wicked,  foolish." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Constance;  "from  your  point 
of  view,  not  from  mine.  But  you  will  not  love  me 
the  less?  I  could  not  bear  that.  Only,  dear,  let 
us  never  talk  of  this  any  more.  I  am  not  a  child. 
I  am  not  hysterical  or  insane.  I  shall  not  trouble 
your  life.  We  will  live  like  other  people.  Now, 
that  is  all."  She  bent  over  and  kissed  the  elder 
sister,  who  sat  staring  into  the  fire,  her  hands  clasped 
about  her  knees.  Accepting  the  kiss  coldly,  Susan 
looked  up,  but  finding  no  comfort  in  the  set  face  of 
her  sister,  her  own  eyes  full  of  tears,— for  she  loved 
with  a  deep  and  changeless  love,  and  wished  to  be 
able  to  respect  as  well  as  to  love,— she  rose  and  said 
as  she  stood:  "I  shall  never  have  a  moment's  peace; 
I  shall  always  be  thinking  of  what  you  may  do.  You 
have  made  me  very  unhappy." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Constance.  t 

Susan  left  her,  saying:  "I  wish  you  were  more 
sorry. ' ' 

Despite  her  assertion  of  certainty,  Constance  was 
not  secure  as  to  what  her  future  course  should  be; 
while  Susan,  as  their  life  went  on  in  its  usual  way, 
regained  her  belief  that  Constance  would  some  day 
acknowledge  her  schemes  to  be  as  absurd  as  they 
appeared  to  her  own  good  sense. 

In  the  morning,  a  few  days  later,  Constance  was 
leaving  General  Averill's  house  when  she  saw,  for 
only  the  second  time  since  her  return,  the  largely 
built  figure  of  Greyhurst.  He  came  upon  her  sud 
denly  as  she  stood  at  the  gate  between  the  high 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  283 

rows  of  box.  His  face  changed.  He  half  raised 
his  hand  in  obedience  to  the  habit  of  salute,  dropped 
it,  and  went  on. 

She  turned  out  of  the  gate,  paused  a  moment,  and 
followed  him.  Half-way  down  the  slope  to  the 
main  street  he  looked  back.  He  saw  twenty  feet 
behind  him  the  tall,  black-robed  woman.  He  turned 
to  go  up  the  main  street.  It  was  the  busy  hour 
near  to  noon.  Both  were  familiar  figures.  People 
looked  after  them  in  wonder.  Two  gentlemen  in 
talk  on  the  board  sidewalk  lifted  their  hats  as  she 
went  by,  and,  observing  Greyhurst  in  front  of  her, 
remarked  on  it  as  strange.  Did  Greyhurst  know 
who  was  behind  him  ?  Did  she  recognize  the  man  ? 
They  passed  on.  At  his  office  he  looked  back  once 
more.  She  was  very  near,  and  had  raised  her  veil. 
She  met  his  gaze  with  steady  eyes.  He  saw  the 
white  face  with  its  look  of  immeasurable  pain,  and, 
passing  into  the  house,  fell  on  a  chair,  limp  and  wet 
with  the  sudden  sweat  of  an  emotion  akin  to  ter 
ror. 

Nor  was  she  less  observant.  She  was  aware  of 
the  quick  change  in  a  face  where  all  expressions 
revealed  themselves  with  distinctness,  and  went  on 
her  way  with  her  share  of  a  moment  of  agitation, 
murmuring:  "I  must  be  to  him  like  a  ghost.  I 
know  now  that  he  suffers— and  he  shall  suffer." 

From  that  time  she  was  more  frequently  seen  in 
the  morning  hours  on  the  one  busy  street  of  the 
town.  Now  and  then,  as  if  by  chance,  she  came 
upon  the  man  she  sought,  but  was  careful  not  to 
overdo  that  which  would  lose  force  by  repetition. 


284  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

Twice  she  followed  him  on  his  homeward  way.  The 
last  time  was  at  dusk.  He  became  aware  of  her 
presence  as  he  left  the  verge  of  the  town  and 
turned  into  West  Street.  She  kept  her  place  some 
few  paces  behind  him.  He  did  not  look  back,  but 
was  terribly  conscious  of  her  nearness.  He  could 
not  have  described  or  analyzed  the  form  of  dis 
tress  which  knowledge  of  her  presence  brought  upon 
him.  He  longed  to  look  back  at  her,  and  was  sure 
that  to  do  so  would  abruptly  freshen  the  memory 
of  all  he  desired  to  forget.  Now,  for  the  first  time, 
he  felt  fear  in  its  purity— such  fear  as  the  child 
has  when  going  up-stairs  in  the  dark— fear  unasso- 
ciated  with  a  definite  object  or  distinct  idea. 

At  his  own  gate  he  turned  and  looked  back.  The 
tall  black  figure  was  but  ten  steps  away.  Of  a 
sudden,  obeying  one  of  those  unreasonable  impulses 
to  which  he  was  subject,  he  went  toward  her. 

For  a  moment  she  was  afraid,  but  did  not  move. 
He  stopped  before  her  and  said:  "My  God!  have 
you  no  pity?  Cannot  you  see  how  I  suffer?" 

' '  Suffer ! "  she  cried.  ' '  I  am  glad  that  you  suffer ! 
Pity?  I  have  for  you  such  pity  as  you  had  for 
him  and  me ! ' ' 

With  no  more  words,  she  crossed  the  street,  and 
her  dark  figure  was  lost  in  the  deepening  gloom. 
The  man  looked  after  her  for  a  moment,  and  then 
walked  back  to  his  house,  and,  moving  heavily,  went 
up  the  steps,  murmuring,  '  *  My  God  !  my  God ! ' ' 

Before  this  he  had  thought  it  hardly  strange  that 
he  met  her  so  often,  for  every  one  met  almost  daily 
in  the  one  business  street.  He  had  felt  it  keenly. 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  285 

But  now  he  became  certain  that  she  had  of  purpose 
chosen  to  meet  and  follow  him.  This  sudden  sense 
of  being  causelessly  afraid  for  a  little  while  occu 
pied  his  consciousness  to  the  shutting  out  of  other 
thought.  He  was  a  man  who  had  been  in  battle 
fearless,  and  so  rash  as  to  be  blamed  for  leading 
his  men  into  needless  peril.  What  now  did  he 
dread?  He  did  not  know,  and  that  troubled  him. 
!  These  revelations  of  what  lies  hidden  in  the  abysses 
of  the  mind  are,  at  times,  startling  evidence  of 
how  little  we  know  of  the  world  of  self.  That  it 
was  not  physical  fear  was  what  disturbed  him  most. 

When  seated  in  his  library,  he  succeeded  in  fas 
tening  his  attention  on  the  tangled  accounts  of  a 
bankrupt  client's  business.  He  was  apt  at  figures 
and  liked  to  deal  with  them.  After  two  hours  of 
hard  work  he  began  to  consider  the  situation  in 
which  he  was  placed.  To  have  it  continue  would 
be  intolerable.  He  had  to  be  absent  for  a  week, 
but  must  return  for  a  day  to  speak  at  or  near  the 
county  town.  Then  he  was  to  go  to  California  and 
attend  to  certain  mining  interests  in  which  the  gov 
ernor  and  other  political  friends  were  concerned. 
He  would  be  away  at  least  two  months,  and,  for 
more  than  one  reason,  looked  forward  with  relief 
to  this  absence,  and  with  hope  as  to  what  it  might 
bring  into  his  life. 

However  adroitly  Constance  managed  to  make  her 
encounters  with  Greyhurst  seem  to  be  accidental, 
the  fact  that  she  did  not  avoid  him,  as  most  women 
so  situated  would  have  done,  excited  very  natural 
surprise  in  the  little  town. 


286  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

When  it  became  common  knowledge  that  she  pur 
posely  followed  him,  the  interest  and  consequent 
gossip  increased.  She  had  made  herself  liked,  but 
now  even  her  closest  friends  felt  her  actions  to  be 
indecorous  and  inexplicably  out  of  relation  to  an 
existence  so  full  of  good  sense  and  so  notable  for 
well-bred  regard  for  the  decencies  of  life.  When 
Mrs.  Averill,  greatly  distressed  by  the  gossip  which 
soon  came  to  her  ears,  thought  proper  to  talk  of  Con 
stance  to  Susan  Hood,  the  latter  became  fully  awak 
ened  to  the  results  of  her  sister 's  behavior. 

To  reason  with  her  would  be  vain.  For  a  mo 
ment  she  thought  of  the  new  rector,  with  whom  she 
had  formed  friendly  relations,  but  knew,  alas!  how 
futile  would  be  that  resort.  Mrs.  Averill,  remem 
bering  her  former  defeat,  was  indisposed  to  renew 
her  own  efforts,  and  at  last  laid  the  matter  before 
her  husband,  who  had  already  heard  quite  too  much 
of  it. 

He  said:  "My  dear  Eleanor,  a  lady  without  a 
husband  usually  relies  on  one  of  two  men— her 
preacher  or  her  doctor.  Ask  Dr.  Eskridge  to  see 
her.  He  ought  to  be  able  to  influence  her,  if  any 
one  can.  He  is  a  gentleman  and  will  see  this  out 
rageous  conduct  in  a  proper  light.  As  concerns 
myself,  I  can  do  nothing,  and  whether  she  annoys 
that  man  or  not  I  do  not  care.  But  Constance  must 
not  be  talked  about.  I  had  to  stop  some  young 
fellows  at  the  club  last  night." 

"Do  you  think,  .Edward,  that  the  man  feels  it?" 

"Yes;  you  asked  me  that  before.  This,  or  some 
thing,  is  affecting  him  deeply.  Ever  since  he  killed 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  287 

poor  Trescot  he  has  been— well,  softer,  less  easily 
put  out.  But  of  late  he  is  moody  and  silent;  every 
one  notices  it." 

"I  wish  he  would  go  away,  or  that  she  would. 
However,  I  will  talk  to  Susan,  who  is  in  despair, 
and  I  will  see  the  doctor." 

She  did  both,  and,  as  a  consequence,  the  next 
morning  Dr.  Eskridge  called  on  Mrs.  Trescot.  He 
led  a  busy  life,  and  she  had  seen  but  little  of  the 
cheerful,  ruddy,  rather  stout  old  man  with  small 
bright  eyes  and  alert  ways.  He  had  been  at  one 
time  in  charge  of  the  State  asylum  for  the  insane, 
and  then,  during  the  war,  a  surgeon  in  Pickett's 
division  of  the  Confederate  army. 

While  waiting  for  Mrs.  Trescot  he  looked  at  the 
pictures,  and  then  fell  with  interest  upon  a  maga 
zine,  which  he  laid  down  as  Constance  with  both 
hands  made  him  welcome,  reproaching  him  with 
neglect  of  an  old  patient. 

"If  I  come  I  stay  too  long,  and  I  am  a  busy  old 
fellow.  I  was  reading  in  this  journal  an  account 
of  Pickett's  charge.  I  was  behind  his  line  and  got 
somehow  too  near.  I  have  still  a  memorial  in  my 
leg.  May  I  take  the  journal  home?" 

"Of  course.  My  husband  was  on  the  hill.  How 
strange  it  all  seems!" 

He  looked  at  the  mournful  figure  and  the  sad 
white  face,  and  said  to  her: 

"You  will  not  mind  my  saying  that  I  and  others 
of  our  old  army  both  liked  and  respected  your 
husband. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  I  know,  I  know.    And  he  was  so  sure  of  the 


288  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

soldiers— so  patient  with  the  feeling  against  us! 
Oh,  doctor,  why  did  I  bring  him  here  ?  He  did  not 
want  to  come.  I  urged  it.  I  am  so  unhappy!" 

It  was  the  usual  story.  We  must  confess  to  some 
one— a  priest,  or,  better,  to  the  large,  wise  charity 
of  the  doctor.  It  was  a  relief  to  the  woman,  who 
was  indisposed  to  talk  of  her  husband  even  to  Susan, 
and  still  less  to  pour  out  to  any  one  else  her  abid 
ing  regret  at  having  allowed  her  eager  love  to  over 
rule  George  Trescot's  wish  to  wait  until  he  could 
offer  her  a  home  in  Boston. 

"I  was  wrong,"  she  said;  "and  it  was  I  who 
killed  him.  But  for  me,  he  would  be  alive  now— 
now!" 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "we  do  what  seems  best 
to  us,  and  who  can  predict  the  far-away  results? 
I  tell  a  man  to  go  to  Europe,  and  the  ship  goes 
down  at  sea.  Am  I  to  blame?" 

"Oh,  that  is  different.  I  was  selfish.  I  did  not 
do  what  was  best.  I  should  have  known  it  was  not. 
I  loved  as  few  women  love.  I  could  not  wait;  I 
wanted  him  near  me  always.  I  should  be  ashamed 
to  confess  how  I  felt.  How  did  I  come  to  speak 
of  it?  I  never  do." 

He  saw  that  she  was  wiping  her  eyes  as  he  re 
turned  : 

"You  are  in  a  mood  to  assume  blame.  You  are 
wrong.  Mr.  Trescot  was  fully  advised  by  older  men, 
his  friends,  that  it  was  wise  to  come  here.  And,  after 
all,  I  am  right,  and  there  is  no  use  in  our  vain  regrets. 
If  we  use  the  errors  or  mistakes  of  the  past  to  wreck 
our  present  and  make  us  useless— what  of  that?" 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  289 

"Am  I  useless,  doctor?" 

He  saw  that  he  was  astray,  and  said:  "No;  I 
must  be  pardoned— you  are  not;  but  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  you  are  doing  that  which  will  surely  end 
in  ruining  your  health  and  making  you  useless." 

She  drew  herself  up  and  regarded  him  with 
steady  eyes.  This  man  understood  her  and  the 
strain  to  which  she  was  subjecting  herself.  That, 
too,  was  a  relief. 

"I  am  sure  that  you  know  I  am  right,"  he  urged. 
"And  let  me  say  a  few  words  more.  You  are  ex 
citing  talk  and  gossip  by  what  you  are  doing. 
Your  sister  and  your  friends  are  hurt  and  troubled 
and— pardon  me— ashamed." 

"They  have  asked  you  to  come  here  and  try  to 
make  me  do  as  other  weak,  helpless  women  have 
done?" 

"Yes;  but  I  should  not  so  state  it." 

"Doctor,  you  are  the  one  person  I  can  or  will 
talk  to  freely  of  this  matter.  Listen  to  me. ' ' 

"I  will." 

"This  man  murdered  my  husband.  If  he  had 
killed  your  wife,  you  would  have  shot  him  as  you 
would  any  other  wild  beast." 

"I  would,"  he  said. 

"This  accursed  town  goes  through  the  farce  of 
a  trial.  He  is  free.  He  prospers.  Except  a  few, 
who  cares  for  the  death  of  a  Yankee  officer?  The 
man  will  go  to  the  legislature— perhaps,  some  day, 
to  Congress.  At  first  people  are  a  little  shocked. 
It  was  pretty  bad,  they  say.  Does  no  one  here  pun 
ish  a  murderer?  No  one!  I,  at  least,  cannot  sit 

19 


290  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

down  and  do  nothing.  I  am  still  too  much  of  a 
woman  to  kill  him;  and,  after  all,  death  does  not 
punish— or,  if  it  does,  should  I  ever  know?  I 
mean  to  ruin  this  man,  and  I  can.  These  mild 
women  who  love  in  their  weak  way  are  shocked. 
What  does  that  matter  to  me?" 

"I  will  tell  you  how  it  matters,"  he  said.  "I 
have  heard  you  rave  in  your  illness.  I,  at  least, 
can  understand ;  I,  at  least,  cannot  altogether  blame 
you.  But  there  are  two  or  three  things  I  want 
to  urge  upon  you.  I  do  not  propose  to  discuss 
the  right  and  wrong  of  this  matter;  but  I  entreat 
you  to  listen  to  me  as  patiently  as  I  have  listened 
to  you." 

"I  will  do  so." 

1  'You  are  following  Greyhurst  at  times.  No,  do 
not  interrupt  me;  let  me  have  my  say.  It  has  ex 
cited  unpleasant  talk— too  unpleasant  to  repeat.  At 
the  club  and  among  the  women  it  is  discussed"— he 
hesitated— " even  laughed  at."  He  knew  how  bitter 
was  the  medicine.  "I  wish  to  be  frank  with  you. 
I  know  this  man.  He  is  by  birth  and  early  breed 
ing  a  gentleman.  I  am  making  no  plea  for  him. 
Who,  indeed,  could?  I  am  sure  that  not  only  has 
he  not  escaped  self-torment,  but  that  your  follow 
ing  him  is  probably  a  severe  punishment.  But  what 
of  yourself?" 

"Of  myself,  doctor?  I  have  never  in  this  mat 
ter  given  myself  a  thought." 

"No,  no;  and  that  is  the  trouble.  You  are  think 
ing  of  one  thing,  and  are  regardless  of  everything 
else,  of  every  one  else— of  sister,  friends,  of  all  who 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  291 

love  you.  If  any  woman  I  did  not  know  and  like 
as  I  do  you  were  to  take  so  petty  a  mode  of  aveng 
ing  a  wrong  as  great  as  you  have  suffered,  I  should 
not  hesitate  to  say  how  it  looks  to  me  and  to  those 
you  cannot  fail  to  respect." 

"What  do  you  mean,  doctor?" 

"I  mean  that  it  is  vulgar." 

She  colored  slightly.  "You  have  certainly  the 
courage  of  your  opinions — 

"And,  too,"  he  said,  "a  very  great  regard  for 
a  lady  who  should  be  far  above  the  use  of  such 
means. ' ' 

Nothing  he  had  said  or  could  have  said  affected 
her  as  did  this  sentence.  She  saw  it  all  in  a  minute, 
and  gave  way  at  once. 

"If  it  be  true  that  he  suffers  through  me,  I  am 
glad  to  have  hurt  the  man.  But  I  see  the  force  of 
what  you  say.  I  shall  not  do  as  I  have  done ;  and 
there  are  other  ways  which  will  neither  annoy  my 
friends  nor  make  me  seem  ridiculous." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  well  pleased.  "But  that 
is  not  all.  You  speak  of  other  ways.  Take  care. 
The  steady  thinking  on  anything  that  involves  emo 
tion  is  full  of  peril  to  a  woman  like  you ;  in  fact, 
to  any  one,  man  or  woman." 

* '  I  know  that.  It  is  true,  and  I  am  guarding  my 
self  with  care.  I  have  taught  myself  to  deal  coldly 
with  this  matter.  I  keep  myself  busy.  I  ride;  I 
read ;  I  draw ;  I  go  among  your  poor.  I  have  had  my 
lesson. ' ' 

"But  what  do  you  mean  to  do?" 

"Now  there,  my  dear  doctor,  I  must  stop.     I  do 


292  CONSTANCE  TBESCOT 

not  know.  I  mean  to  ruin  this  man,  to  drive  him 
to  despair." 

As  she  spoke  the  doctor  considered  her  resolute 
face.  He  had  an  insecure  belief  that  she  would 
in  some  way  compass  her  ends.  She  would  collect 
this  debt  of  vengeance,  with  usury  thereto.  How 
she  would  do  it  he  could  not  imagine.  He  expressed 
his  doubts,  and  even  more  than  he  felt,  in  the  hope 
of  inducing  her  to  give  up  altogether  her  use  of 
means  full  of  danger  to  her  mental  health.  She 
turned  on  him  at  last  with  her  reply: 

''You  say  that  I  am  powerless  and  that  I  shall 
not  only  harm  myself,  but  hurt  all  who  love  me, 
and  yet  do  this  man  no  real  injury.  I  want  one 
friend  who  will  credit  me  with  not  being  a  fool, 
and  what  I  say  is  for  you  alone." 

"That,  of  course,  Mrs.  Trescot." 

She  then  told  him  what  she  had  done  with  the  tele 
gram  and  the  letter. 

"I  cannot  blame  you,"  he  said,  as  she  finished  a 
perfectly  calm  statement.  "I  do  not  blame  you. 
I  shall  say  no  more.  I  had  far  rather  you  left 
vengeance  to  Him  who  soon  or  late  is  sure  to  pun 
ish  as  man  cannot.  I  see  that  I,  at  least,  am  un 
able  to  convince  you.  But  take  care;  you  are  on  a 
dark  and  dangerous  way.  I  shall  say  no  more  to 
Mrs.  Averill  than  that  you  will  occasion  no  further 
talk  by  what  you  do. ' ' 

"Yes,"  she  said,  rising;  "thank  you,  my  good  doc 
tor.  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  put  an  end  to  this 
gossip.  Good-by." 

He  went  out  to  his  gig,  saying  to  himself  as  he 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  293 

drove  away:  "The  man  is  doomed.  If  she  persists 
he  will  do  something— God  knows  what.  He  will 
be  unable  to  bear  it.  These  sensitive  people  never 
can  stand  still  and  wait.  They  are  always  nettled 
into  doing  something."  He  began  to  consider,  as 
he  drove  into  the  country,  whether  he  had  ever  seen 
any  one  like  Constance  Trescot.  He  at  last  smiled 
with  the  satisfied  nod  of  a  man  who  has  found  what 
he  was  looking  for.  There  was  something  feline  in 
her  delicate  ways,  her  grace  of  movement,  her  neat 
ness,  the  preservation  of  primitive  passions  and  in 
stincts,  her  satisfaction  in  the  chase  and  in  tor 
turing.  "Let  us  add,"  said  the  old  doctor,  "the 
human  intelligence,  and  we  have  her.  Get  up,  Bob ! 
It  is  as  near  as  we  shall  ever  get." 

Two  days  later  the  doctor  received  a  note : 

"MY  DEAR  DOCTOR: 

' '  Yesterday,  as  Susan  wanted  to  hear  a  real  stump- 
speech,  Colonel  Dudley  rode  with  us  to  Ekron;  and 
there,  on  the  edge  of  the  woods,  he  got  us  a  standing- 
place  (every  one  was  very  kind)  close  to  the  speak 
ers.  I  soon  had  enough  of  the  sectional  eloquence ; 
but  Susan,  who  was  taken  with  the  humor  of  it, 
would  not  go.  I  had  been  told  that  that  man  was  not 
to  be  present.  When  he  got  on  the  stump,  not  ten 
feet  from  us,  for  a  moment  he  spoke  to  the  people 
behind  him.  Colonel  Dudley  said  to  me :  '  Come 
away;  I  did  not  expect  this.'  Susan  said:  'I  must 
go.'  I  said :  'No ;  I  will  not  go ;  I  will  not  be  driven 
away. '  As  I  refused  he  turned  and  saw  me.  I  can 
not  describe  to  you  with  what  satisfaction  I  saw 


294  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

what  before  I  had  only  guessed.  I  cannot  describe 
how  his  face  changed.  His  voice  broke  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  he  went  on.  He  was  embarrassed. 
That  might  well  be;  but  there  was  more.  He  got 
confused  and  then  was  clear  again.  Some  one  said 
he  was  drunk.  Although  he  tried  not  to  look  at  me, 
the  speech  was  evidently  a  failure,  and  the  crowd 
surprised.  As  he  stepped  down  I  said:  'Now  we 
will  go.' 

"I  write  because  I  was  seen  by  many  who  will 
think  that  I  went  purposely  or  should  have  left  at 
once.  I  wish  you,  who  will  hear  of  it,  to  know  that 
I  did  not  break  my  promise. 

"  Believe  me,  with  grateful  remembrance, 
"  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT." 

"But  she  stayed,  for  all  that,"  said  the  doctor. 
"How  will  it  end?" 

Others  were  as  curious;  and  over  the  cocktails 
and  juleps  at  the  club  on  the  evening  of  the  stump- 
speaking,  the  ex-Confederates  and  others  discussed 
this  novel  vendetta.  As  the  doctor  entered  with 
Colonel  Dudley,  a  young  fellow  was  describing  the 
scene  and  the  evident  effect  upon  Greyhurst.  An 
other,  a  little  older,  said:  "I  saw  her  follow  him 
down  the  street.  How  the  deuce  could  she  want  to 
come  back  here?  It  must  be  awful." 

"Yes;  for  him." 

Said  Dudley :  '  *  You  boys  had  better  drop  that.  I 
took  this  lady  to  the  meeting.  No  one  knew  that  Mr. 
Greyhurst  was  to  speak.  And  let  me,  as  an  old  fel 
low,  remind  you  that  we  do  not  discuss  ladies  here. ' ' 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  295 

"Oh,  but,  colonel,  this  was  such  an  amazing 
thing." 

"Would  make  a  good  article,"  said  the  editor,  as 
they  sat  down. 

"But  never  will,  sir,"  remarked  the  doctor, 
sharply,  over  the  shrubbery  of  his  julep. 

"Of  course  not,"  said  the  editor. 

The  young  fellows  apologized,  and  the  colonel 
began  to  chat  with  the  doctor. 

A  few  minutes  later  Greyhurst  entered  the  smoke- 
filled  room.  Without  speaking  to  any  one  else,  he 
went  over  to  where  Dudley  sat.  "Will  you  do  me 
the  favor  to  speak  to  me  a  few  minutes?  Not  out 
side,"  he  added  a  little  louder,  as  men  looked 
around.  The  old  Confederate  rose,  saying,  "Of 
course;  but  let  no  one  take  away  my  julep." 

"Not  outside,"  Greyhurst  repeated.  "Up-stairs, 
colonel. ' ' 

Dudley  followed  him  to  the  room  above,  where 
were  two  candles,  some  chairs,  a  poker-table,  and 
mildewed  walls. 

"Let  us  sit  down,"  said  Greyhurst.  "I  shall  not 
keep  you  long." 

"Very  good;  it  is  chilly  here.     What  is  it?" 

Greyhurst  said:  "You  will,  I  know,  pardon  me 
if  I  am  wrrong ;  but  you  as  much  as  told  me  I  must 
leave  the  board  of  the  orphan  home.  I  have  since 
learned,  or  inferred,  that  Mrs.  Trescot  was  behind 
the  matter." 

"Yes,  in  a  way;  indirectly.  In  fact,  I  have  no 
reason  to  conceal  from  you  that  she  declined  to 
leave  in  the  hands  of  the  managers  the  money  she 


296  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

gave,  because  you  were  on  the  board.  I  thought  her 
justified,  but  of  course  I  could  not  bring  a  lady's 
name  into  the  matter  when  I  talked  to  you. ' '  Dud 
ley  was  not  a  man  to  excuse  his  actions.  He  expected 
an  angry  answer.  To  his  surprise,  Greyhurst  said 
quietly : 

"Yes,  she  was  justified.  May  I  ask  if,  when  you 
rode  out  with  her  to  the  meeting  this  afternoon,  you 
were  aware  that  I  was  to  speak?" 

"I  was  not.  Is  that  all?"  asked  the  colonel,  as  he 
stood  up. 

"Yes,  that  is  all,"  said  Greyhurst,  in  tones  both 
sad  and  gentle;  "and,  sir,  I  trust  that  you  will  ac 
cept  my  excuses  for  such  unusual  questions." 

"It  is  all  right,"  said  the  colonel.  Then,  seeing 
that  Greyhurst  still  lingered,  standing,  with  one 
thumb  on  the  table,  something  struck  him  in  this 
large,  square-shouldered  man  with  the  dark  eyes. 
Either  curiosity  or  faintly  felt  pity,  or  both,  made 
him  say : 

' '  Is  there  anything  else  I  can  do  for  you  ? ' ' 
"Yes;  if  I  may  keep  you  a  few  minutes." 
"Pray,  go  on." 

"I  am  in  a  situation,  Colonel  Dudley,  which  is 
very  unusual.  I  was  unfortunate  a  year  ago— most 
unfortunate;  and  since  Mrs.  Trescot  has  returned 
to  St.  Ann  I  fear  that  my  presence,  our  accidental 
encounters,  our— well,  I  find  it  difficult  to  avoid 
her.  I  put  it  as  a  man  must  do  about  a  lady.  It 
has  become  unendurable."  He  did  not  wish  to  com 
plain  that  he  was  haunted  by  this  living  ghost.  He 
looked  steadily  at  the  old  colonel,  and  added:  "I 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  297 

hope  I  make  myself  understood?"    He  was  unwill 
ing  to  say  that  she  followed  him. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Dudley,  coldly,  "that  I  must 
admit  that  you  do.  It  is  plain  enough  as  you  put 
it— unusual,  too,  as  you  state;  but  let  me  add  that 
I  do  not  propose  to  discuss  with  you  this  lady's 
course. ' ' 

Greyhurst  said  promptly:  "I  did  not  expect  you 
to  do  that.  I  wish  to  ask  advice  of  an  older  man  as 
to  what,  as  a  gentleman,  I  should  do." 

"I  can't  give  it,  Mr.  Greyhurst.  There  are  rea 
sons  why  even  to  be  asked  is  disagreeable  to  me.  I 
allowed  you  to  question  me  in  regard  to  my  presence 
with  Mrs.  Trescot  at  that  meeting.  I  answered  you 
frankly.  But  I  did  not  like  it,  sir ;  I  did  not  like 
it.  If  I  had  declined  to  reply  we  should  have  quar 
reled.  I  think  this  talk  had  better  end  before  my 
temper  gives  out— or  yours." 

Greyhurst  had  been  looking  down  as  they  talked, 
seeming  to  weigh  his  words.  Now,  with  something 
like  a  wan  smile  on  his  dark  face,  he  said  quickly, 
as  he  looked  up:  "No  man,  Colonel  Dudley,  can 
ever  quarrel  with  me  again,  or  make  me  quarrel." 
Dudley's  face  cleared  as  he  said  at  once,  in  his 
frank,  pleasant  way:  "I  misunderstood.  You  must 
pardon  me.  I  am  free  to  say  to  you  that,  little  as  I 
like  or  approve  this  lady's  course,  you,  sir,  can  do 
nothing.  I  did  not  mean  to  advise,  but  now  I  have 
done  so,  and  I  have  only  this  to  add.  None  of  us 
who  know  Mrs.  Trescot  are  likely  to  stop  her.  I 
saw  her  at  the  meeting.  If  ever  a  woman  hated  a 
man,  she  hates  you.  Whether  she  is  justified  in  her 


298  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

course  or  not,  you  know  best.  You  have  made  me 
speak  out,  and  I  have  had  to  express  myself  in  a 
way,  sir,  which  is  not  agreeable  to  me  and  cannot 
be  pleasant  to  you." 

' '  I  have  said  that  she  is  justified, ' '  said  Greyhurst, 
slowly.  "I  have  had  no  day  since— since  I  killed 
that  man  which  has  not  been  full  of  regret.  I  do 
not  hesitate  to  say  so  to  you.  But  a  man  must  live. 
I  cannot  go  away ;  I  have  not  the  means.  What  can 
Idol" 

' '  Do  ?    Damn  it !  you  can  do  nothing. ' ' 

1 '  Thank  you ;  that  is  my  own  unhappy  conclusion. 
At  all  events,  I  shall  be  released  for  a  time.  I  go 
to  California  next  week,  and  shall  be  gone  a  month, 
or  even  two.  You  know,  it  is  about  Dexter 's  mines." 

He  said  next,  with  a  certain  timidity:  " Would 
you  do  me  the  great  favor  to  allow  me  to  refer  to 
you  some  business  matters  while  I  am  absent?" 

Dudley  hesitated,  and  then  replied  shortly :  ' '  Yes ; 
tell  them  to  come  to  me." 

11  Thank  you,"  said  Greyhurst. 

Upon  this,  they  went  down-stairs  in  silence.  As 
Greyhurst  turned  to  go  out,  the  old  colonel,  for  the 
first  time,  put  out  his  hand,  saying:  "I  am  sorry 
for  you,  Greyhurst,  both  for  the  past  and  for  the 
present.  Good  night." 

The  lawyer  made  no  reply,  and  the  colonel  went 
back  to  his  euchre  and  the  julep  and  the  doctor. 

' '  I  was  afraid, ' '  said  the  old  army  comrade,  ' '  that 
there  might  be  something  unpleasant." 

"No;  but  I  had  to  speak  my  mind.  He  was  as 
sweet-tempered  as— well,  as  you  are,  doctor." 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  299 

"Then  he  is  changed.  In  fact,  since  he  killed 
Trescot  he  is  strangely  patient.  Every  one  notices 
it." 

"Damn  him!"  said  Dudley.  "I  don't  think  he 
would  even  kill  a  fly  now.  Your  deal,  doctor." 

The  game  went  on  to  the  end,  and  the  colonel, 
who  had  won,  said,  laughing :  '  *  You  are  not  in  your 
usual  form,  Eskridge." 

' '  No ;  my  mind  was  elsewhere.  I  was  thinking  of 
Greyhurst,  and  what  a  mess  he  has  made  of  his  life. 
I  do  not  believe  the  man  has  a  friend  in  the  world ; 
and  I  suppose  he  quarrels  with  John  Greyhurst  as 
often  as  with  others.  Many  of  us  are  not  our  own 
friends.  I  doubt  a  little  if  he  is  even  his  own  ac 
quaintance.  ' ' 

Dudley  laughed.  "You  have  a  queer  way  of  put 
ting  things." 

The  doctor  was  in  his  speculative  vein.  He  went 
on. 

"It  was  simple  murder,  that  good  fellow's  death. 
I  wonder  how  a  man  feels  after  he  has  done  a  thing 
like  that.  If  he  is  educated  and  imaginative,  and 
has  power  to  feel,  it  must  set  him  apart,  as  it  were, 
in  a  kind  of  awful  loneliness— a  sort  of  solitary 
imprisonment  in  himself." 

"Oh,  I  don't  suppose  men  take  it  that  way,  Esk 
ridge." 

"Some;  not  all.  Of  course  there  are  Brutes  who 
have  no  power  to  suffer  for  what  they  do." 

"And  you  think  this  man  does  suffer?" 

"I  do.    I  am  sure  of  it." 

"And  so  am  I.    Another  julep,  doctor?" 


300  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"No;  I  must  go.  I  have  one  dying  man  to  see, 
and  there  is  another  soul  about  to  fill  up  the  ranks. 
You  see,  I  live  on  the  skirmish-line  of  life." 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  I  leave  you  to  digest  my  remark."  He  went 
out,  laughing. 


IV 


the  days  went  by,  Greyhurst,  some 
what  relieved  by  the  prospect  of  a  long 
absence,  arranged  his  affairs,  and  pre 
pared  himself  for  his  journey  to  Cali 
fornia.  Constance  Trescot,  well  aware 
of  his  plans,  was  deep  in  thought  of  the  man  who 
was,  for  a  time,  to  be  out  of  her  reach.  Her  in 
creasing  abstraction,  her  lessening  interest  in  books, 
—and  she  had  never  been  an  eager  reader,— her  still 
silent  piano,  all  alike  contributed  to  increase  the 
anxiety  in  which  the  elder  sister  lived.  In  fact, 
Constance  had  exhausted  her  resources ;  but  now  an 
accident  came  to  her  aid,  and,  doing  for  her  that 
which  she  never  would  have  done,  inflicted  on  her 
enemy  a  torture  beyond  the  dream  of  malice,  and 
far-reaching  in  its  consequences. 

An  errand  of  charity  to  one  of  the  families  now 
residing  on  the  bluff  had  occupied  her  afternoon. 
It  was  dusk  and  the  shadows  were  deepening  as 
Constance  walked  slowly  along  a  wood  path  which 
led  into  the  road  on  which  she  lived.  As  she  came  out 
of  the  forest  in  the  dusk  she  quickened  her  steps, 
and,  deep  in  thought,  moved  on,  until  of  a  sudden 
she  became  aware  of  being  on  the  same  side  of  the 
way  and  in  front  of  the  house  in  which  Greyhurst 

301 


302  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

resided.  She  stopped  short,  recalling  that  just 
here  she  and  her  husband  had  first  met  him.  As 
she  turned  quickly  to  cross  the  street,  she  stumbled 
on  the  rough  sidewalk,  recovered  her  balance,  and 
crossed  over  to  her  own  side  of  the  way.  At  her 
garden  gate  she  suddenly  missed  a  little  velvet  bag 
which  usually  hung  from  her  belt.  Instantly  she 
remembered  that  it  held,  besides  her  cards,  a  small 
morocco  case  in  which  was  a  photograph  of  her  hus 
band  in  his  major's  uniform.  Realizing  the  fact 
that  she  had  stumbled  and  might  then  have  lost  it, 
and  much  troubled,  she  was  about  to  return  and 
look  for  it,  when  she  saw  Grey  hurst,  who  had  just 
come  out  of  his  garden.  As  she  hesitated,  he  picked 
up  something  which  she  knew  must  be  her  bag. 
She  had  a  moment  of  indecision.  To  seek  him,  or 
to  send  for  it,  she  felt  to  be  impossible.  She  had 
a  larger  copy,  a  duplicate  of  the  photograph.  What 
effect  would  this  picture  of  the  man  he  had  killed 
have  on  the  murderer?  With  a  singular  smile  on 
her  face,  she  turned  and  went  into  her  own  house. 
She  had  a  wild  desire  to  see  that  meeting  of  the 
slayer  and  the  slain. 

Without  the  least  idea  of  the  ownership  of  the 
bag,  Greyhurst  carelessly  laid  it  on  the  table  of  his 
library.  He  then  lighted  a  lamp,  and,  mildly  curi 
ous,  began  to  look  at  the  contents  of  the  bag.  He 
came  first  on  the  small  case,  and  drew  out  the  pho 
tograph.  As  he  turned  it  over  he  saw  the  face  of 
George  Trescot. 

The  suddenness  of  this  pictured  revival  of  a  face 
he  had  of  late  seen  with  less  painful  clearness  gave 
to  it  the  terrible  power  of  an  apparition.  He  let 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  303 

it  fall.  The  face  lay  uppermost.  He  made  a  great 
effort,  and  seizing  it,  threw  it  from  him. 

"My  God!"  he  said,  "I  shall  end  by  killing  that 
woman ! ' ' 

For  a  moment  he  entertained  the  idea  that  she 
had  meant  him  to  find  it.  Then,  as  he  saw  the 
cards  and  some  memoranda,  he  knew  that  she  must 
have  accidentally  dropped  the  bag ;  and  still,  the  hor 
ror  of  the  thing  was  increased  for  him  rather  than 
lessened  by  his  certainty  that  he  was  the  victim  of 
a  chance  loss.  Was  everything  against  him? 

He  picked  up  the  photograph,  and,  resolute  not 
to  yield  to  what  he  felt  was  weakness,  he  set  it  be 
fore  him,  and  with  his  head  in  his  hands  stared  at 
the  strong,  well-bred,  kindly  face.  It  was  too  much 
for  him.  The  tears  began  to  gather,  and  as  they 
rolled  down  his  face  he  slowly  replaced  the  portrait 
in  the  case,  laid  it  in  the  bag,  and  closed  the  clasp. 
The  test  of  endurance  had  been  beyond  his  powers, 
and  had  produced  on  his  nervous  system  an  effect 
such  as  could  never  have  been  anticipated. 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  as  he  fell  back  in  his  chair, 
"am  I  not  punished  enough!" 

As  he  spoke,  he  looked  up  and  saw,  as  if  some 
ten  feet  away  and  a  little  to  the  left,  the  face  of 
the  man  he  had  killed.  For  a  moment  he  was 
simply  astonished.  It  was  larger  than  life  and 
smiling,  and  not  like  the  photograph.  He  rubbed 
his  eyes,  closed  and  opened  them,  and  moved  about. 
The  phantom  kept  its  place;  and  at  last  he  ob 
served  that  if  he  looked  down  he  lost  it.  He  was, 
as  I  have  said,  intelligent,  and  recognized  in  this 
vision  the  effect  of  long  strain  and  sudden  shock. 


304  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

And  still  it  meant  even  to  his  knowledge  something 
sinister,  but  about  which  it  was  possible  to  reason. 
It  affected  him  at  the  moment  less  than  had  done 
the  letters  or  telegram,  or  the  presence  of  the  woman 
who  had  sent  them.  His  fear  was  not  so  much  of 
what  was  as  of  what  might  follow.  What  did  it 
mean?  Was  he  about  to  be  ill?  He  resolved  to  see 
Dr.  Eskridge  and  to  talk  to  him  frankly.  He  awak 
ened  the  next  day  still  seeing  the  face,  at  times  dimly, 
at  others  clearly.  Its  persistency  troubled  him. 
Was  it  a  symptom  of  some  impending  mental  dis 
aster?  Had  his  head  been  clear  of  late— his  mem 
ory  unimpaired?  When  the  mind  of  the  sensitive 
becomes  critical  concerning  the  health  of  its  own  pro 
cesses,  there  is  peril  in  the  way.  He  found  himself 
caught  in  machinery  not  readily  arrested  by  the 
will  which  set  it  in  motion.  He  had  always  been 
in  vigorous  health  and  had  rarely  had  occasion  to 
consult  a  physician.  He  had,  however,  lacked  power 
to  dismiss  unpleasant  thoughts,  and  now  the  terror 
of  decay  of  reason  haunted  him  unceasingly.  And  it 
was  a  woman  who  had  brought  this  fear  upon  him,  a 
woman  against  whom  he  was  absolutely  defenseless. 

Early  in  the  morning  he  gave  the  bag  to  a  maid 
and  asked  her,  much  to  her  amazement,  to  leave  it 
at  Mrs.  Trescot's.  When  it  was  laid  on  the  break 
fast  table  beside  Constance,  her  sister  asked  a  ques 
tion  in  regard  to  it.  Constance  replied:  "I  lost 
it  yesterday.  I  suppose  that  some  one,  finding  my 
cards,  has  returned  it." 

"You  are  fortunate,  dear." 

"Yes,  am  I  not?" 


HE  town  of  St.  Ann  was  prospering. 
There  were  more  horses  hitched  about 
the  gnawed  posts  in  front  of  the  gro 
cery-shops;  more  men  in  well-worn 
gray  coming  in  from  the  country  to 
buy  or  sell.  In  a  word,  there  was  more  money. 
There  was  also,  as  a  consequence,  less  anxiety,  and 
more  time,  or,  rather,  more  leisure ;  and  the  Christ 
mas  season  was  less  sad  as  the  years  went  on. 

Miss  Susan  Hood  had  thrown  herself  with  energy 
and  good  humor  into  the  church  work,  and  had  re 
organized  the  Sunday-schools.  The  orphan  home  had 
also  her  care,  and  as  she  had  money  and  a  bountiful 
sense  of  the  humorous  aspects  of  life,  she  found 
ready  occasion  for  the  varied  forms  of  generosity  of 
which  she  was  capable,  and  constant  mild  amuse 
ment  in  what  she  saw  and  heard.  As  concerned 
Constance  she  was  still  uneasy,  and  the  mpre  so  be 
cause  she  was  sure  that  her  sister  had  by  no  means 
given  up  her  designs  against  Greyhurst,  The  fact 
that  Constance  sedulously  concealed  whatever  she 
was  doing  still  further  added  to  her  discomfort,  and, 
except  Mrs.  Averill,  there  was  no  one  to  whom  she 
felt  free  to  talk.  She  resolved  once  more  to  reopen 
the  subject  with  Constance. 
20  305 


306  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

On  this  special  morning  Miss  Althea  had  been  long 
closeted  with  Mrs.  Trescot,  and  when  she  had  gone 
Constance  took  up  her  garden  gloves,  flower-basket, 
and  scissors,  and,  putting  on  a  long  white  apron, 
went  out  into  the  little  conservatory.  Here  she 
found  Coffin,  who,  under  her  instructions,  was  with 
much  labor  of  mind  slowly  learning  how  to  care  for 
flowers.  His  old,  weather-worn  face  was  more  eager 
than  usual. 

He  said:  "That  man  is  going  away;  I  thought  to 
come  and  tell  you." 

"Are  you  sure?  I  heard  that  he  was.  Don't 
speak  so  loud." 

Tom's  voice  had  the  volume  needed  for  great 
wood  spaces. 

"Yes,  I  'm  sure.  His  old  black  woman  she  says 
so.  It  '11  be  for  a  month  or  two. ' ' 

"Indeed!  So  long!"  She  stood  before  the  lame 
little  woodman,  taller  by  a  head.  For  him  there  was 
the  sense  of  a  commanding  presence,  remembrance  of 
kindness  with  flavor  of  comprehending  friendliness, 
and  yet  such  sense  of  aloofness  as  the  statue  of  a  god 
dess  may  have  had  for  some  Greek  hewer  of  wood. 
She  stood  still  in  thought;  at  last  he  asked: 

' '  Was  you  worried  over  that  vermin  ? ' '  Her  ven 
geance  had  brought  her  into  singular  partnerships. 

"No;  not  while  he  is  here." 

"Thought  you  would  have  liked  him  clean  out 
of  sight." 

"No ;  I  mean  to  ruin  him.  If  he  goes  away  I  can 
not." 

What  she  had  done  or  desired  to  do  he  did  not 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  307 

know;  nor,  had  he  known,  would  her  slow  methods 
have  appealed  to  his  coarser  conception  of  what  he 
called  "evenin'  up"  things. 

He  said:  "It  might  be  best  to  do  what  I  said. 
I  'd  do  it.  You  see,  ma'am,  it  's  sure,  and  it  don't 
give  no  trouble." 

Greyhurst's  life  hung  on  the  issue  of  a  minute  of 
indecision.  A  wild  anger  came  upon  her  at  the 
thought  of  his  escaping.  A  little  flush  grew  on 
the  pale  cheek,  and  then  faded. 

"No,"  she  said.     "I  can  wait." 

"Well,"  returned  Coffin,  "it  is  n't  my  notion  of 
things.  I  'd  just  kill  him  and  get  done  with  him." 

"No;  you  must  not  do  that." 

"It  '11  be  as  you  say.  'Bout  these  rose-bugs, 
they  're  mighty  troublesome,  ma'am." 

He  dismissed  the  matter  lightly.  He  was  a  man 
of  the  Tennessee  border,  where  women  do  not  value 
a  man  who  cannot  shoot  straight— a  land  of  long- 
nourished  hatreds,  where  men  kill  but  do  not  steal, 
where  the  vendetta  is  medieval  in  the  simplicity  of 
its  one  demand.  He  could  not  comprehend  the  feel 
ing  which  stayed  his  hand,  but,  nevertheless,  he  was 
entirely  the  vassal  of  her  will. 

She  answered  one  or  two  questions  about  the  flow 
ers  with  some  directions,  and  sent  him  away  with 
roses  for  Mrs.  March. 

While  her  sister  was  thus  engaged,  Susan  had 
been  in  the  parlor  in  earnest  talk  with  the  new  rec 
tor  of  the  church  at  St.  Ann.  Very  soon  after  her 
arrival  she  had  added  to  her  church  work  some  care 
of  the  freed  slaves,  and,  happy  in  the  relief  of  new 


308  CONSTANCE  TKESCOT 

duties,  had  brought  inspiriting  good  sense  and 
money  to  aid  the  many  forms  of  usefulness  in  which 
Mr.  Kent  was  interested. 

The  rector  had  been  talking  of  George  Trescot. 

"You  must  have  met  him,"  said  Susan. 

"No;  we  exchanged  visits,  but  he  was  much  of 
the  time  absent  since  I  came;  and  for  a  few  weeks 
I  was  myself  in  the  East." 

"I  am  sorry  you  never  met." 

"And  I.  I  think  I  mentioned  that  we  were  re 
lated—distant  cousins.  Perhaps,  if  Mrs.  Trescot 
knew  that,  she  might  be  willing  to  see  me.  I  very 
much  want  to  help  you  and  her.  And  there  is  so 
much  wild  talk— 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  my  sister  has  opinions  which 
I  neither  share  nor  like— oh,  excuse  me,  I  fear  I 
must  cut  short  our  talk.  I  see  that  her  gardener 
is  going,  and  I  have  to  see  her  before  she  goes  out. ' ' 

He  rose,  saying:  "I  shall  try  again.  I  hope  to 
have  better  luck." 

"I  shall  see  you  to-morrow  at  the  library.  The 
books  I  ordered  should  be  here  to-day." 

"One  moment,  Miss  Hood.  May  I  be  pardoned 
if  I  ask  why  Mrs.  Trescot  never  comes  to  church?" 

"That  is  a  long  story,  and  a  sad  one.  Some  day 
we  will  talk  about  it,  not  now." 

"You  will  not  forget  the  flowers  for  Sunday?" 

"Of  course  not." 

After  he  left  her,  Susan  went  out  into  the  little 
conservatory. 

Said  Constance:  "Has  your  rector,  or  director, 
gone  ?  What  can  you  find  to  talk  about  ?  He  makes 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  309 

rather  long  visits.  I  must  admit  that  he  rides  well 
for  a  preacher.  I  saw  him  pass  yesterday.  He 
looks  to  be  about  twenty-one/' 

"He  is  not  young,"  said  Susan,  shortly. 

"Oh,  preachers  never  are  young.  He  is  rather 
good-looking. ' ' 

"Yes,  rather.  I  wish  you  would  see  him  when  he 
calls.  You  see  every  one  else." 

"Oh,  some  day,  if  you  really  want  me  to  see  him." 

"I  should  like  it,  Conny." 

Susan  was  indisposed  to  discuss  the  rector,  or  to 
insist  too  much  on  his  being  received;  but  why,  she 
would  have  been  unable,  or,  more  likely,  unwilling, 
to  say.  She  changed  the  subject. 

"You  had  your  two  beauties,  Conny.  You  think 
I  talk  long  with  Mr.  Kent.  How  you  find  talk  for 
an  hour  with  that  depressing  Althea  I  cannot  ima 
gine.  Her  head  wabbles  about  as  if  she  were  a 
feeble  chicken,  and  her  nose— did  you  ever  notice 
her  nose?" 

"No,"  said  Constance.  "She  is  a  very  good  wo 
man,  and  very  unfortunate.  I  do  not  see  why  you 
make  fun  of  her." 

"  I  ?  The  fun  is  ready  made ;  and  really,  Conny, 
I  can  pity,  and  could,  at  need,  help  her,  with 
out  enjoying  her  society.  What  do  you  talk 
about?" 

"Oh,  many  things." 

Susan  had  overheard  portions  of  Althea 's  gossip. 
"I  think  I  could  guess.  Is  it  never  to  end?" 

Constance,  who  had  been  moving  about  the  room, 
turned  on  her. 


310  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"I  thought,  Susan,  we  had  agreed  to  dismiss  that 
subject. ' ' 

"No;  or,  if  we  did,  I  cannot  go  on  in  this  way. 
I  did  not  lightly  bring  this  matter  up.  Oh,  Conny, 
if  you  only  would — 

"I  would  do  anything  else  for  you.  But  for  the 
present  you  may  be  at  ease.  He  is  going  away— 
to  be  gone,  perhaps,  for  two  months." 

"I  am  very  glad." 

"And  I  am  not.    Oh,  there  is  the  lunch-bell." 

She  was  already  deeply  engaged  in  a  new  scheme, 
and  feared  to  face  any  more  of  Susan's  questions. 
To  plan  possible  or  impossible  means  of  wound 
ing  her  enemy  gave  her  the  only  satisfaction  her 
narrowing  life  afforded.  To  talk  of  him  was  pain 
ful,  or  at  least  Susan  was  not  the  neutral-minded 
confessor  who  would  see  in  her  course  the  least 
shadow  of  human  excuse. 

After  lunch  she  went  into  Trescot's  study.  The 
feeling  which  rigidly  guarded  the  room  from  any 
presence  but  that  of  Constance  seemed  to  Susan 
morbid.  Nevertheless,  she  had  respected  her  sister's 
wish.  Constance  entered  and  sat  down.  "When 
there  she  had  at  times  that  sense  of  the  nearness 
of  the  dead  which  many  have  known— and  known 
with  intense  longing  for  the  "sound  of  a  voice  that 
is  still." 

She  had  long  since  brought  his  sword  from  her 
chamber  and  placed  it  on  his  table.  She  picked  it 
up  and  dusted  it,  and  laid  it  down.  The  room 
was  full  of  him.  She  walked  about,  thinking  of  her 
dead,  and  then,  with  another  thrill  of  anguish,  of 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  311 

the  lost  child.  "And  you  would  have  had  me  for 
give!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  George,  George,  how  can 
I!  You  are  dead;  I  shall  see  you  no  more.  My 
baby  is  dead— and  I  am  dead,  too— oh,  dead  to  love, 
to  joy!  And  it  gets  worse  and  not  better." 

She  sat  down  and  rocked  back  and  forward, 
clasping  her  head.  "Perhaps  to  die  were  better." 
Her  face  twitched  around  the  mouth,  her  jaw  stif 
fened,  and  she  recalled  again  the  doctor's  warning. 
Even  the  luxury  of  self-abandonment  to  lonely 
grief  was  not  for  her.  She  controlled  herself,  but 
not  readily.  The  passions  are  near  neighbors.  And 
with  the  thought  of  Greyhurst,  her  anger  rose  to 
stormy  force.  "And  he  did  it!"  she  cried,  "and 
lives,  and  is  to  have  years  of  ease,  and  at  last  for- 
getfulness.  Never,  never,  if  I  can  help  it— and  no 
one  shall  stop  me ;  and,  if  all  else  fail,  I  have  always 
that— that!"  She  was  thinking  of  the  temptation 
Coffin  had  crudely  set  before  her. 

She  grew  agitated,  looking  about  her.  "Not 
here ;  I  must  not  think  of  it  here.  Would  he  forgive 
me  ?  He  would  know  I  had  to  go  my  way. ' ' 

She  went  out  of  the  room  and  met  her  sister,  who, 
seeing  her  agitation,  said:  "My  dear  Conny,  what  is 
the  matter?" 

"Nothing  is  the  matter.  I  wish  you  would  let  me 
alone. ' ' 

"Oh,  Conny,  what  have  I  done?" 

She  was  hurt;  but  was  far  too  wise  to  say 
more,  for  of  late  her  sister  had  become  irritable. 
As  she  turned  aside,  repressing  the  sharp  answer 
she  felt  inclined  to  make,  Constance  said:  "Where  is 


312  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

the  paper?    I  have  not  seen  it  to-day.    You  always 
take  it."    It  was  her  habit  to  run  over  it  daily. 

"I  will  get  it,"  said  Susan.  "Wait,  dear;  I  know 
where  it  is." 

When  she  returned  Constance  took  the  little  sheet. 
Presumably  she  found  what  she  sought. 

"The  land  sale  we  mentioned  some  time  ago  in 
cludes  a  long  stretch  of  shore  to  the  south  of  the 
Hood  estate.  It  was,  we  understand,  bought  by  Mr. 
Greyhurst;  but  whether  for  himself  or  others  is 
not  known.  The  water  at  this  place  on  the  river 
front  is  shallow;  but  if,  as  we  hear,  the  deep- 
water  front  between  it  and  the  Hoods'  has  also 
been  acquired  from  the  Baptistes,  it  would  give  Mr. 
Greyhurst 's  frontage  all  it  needs,  and  add  much 
to  its  value." 

For  a  little  while  Constance  sat  thinking.  Then 
she  rose,  dressed  herself  for  the  street,  and  went  out. 
She  had  more  than  enough  to  think  about.  Al- 
thea  had  heard  that  Mr.  Greyhurst  was  bent  on 
other  business  than  mines.  They  did  say  that  there 
was  a  lady  in  Sacramento  who  had  refused  to 
marry  him  while  his  divorced  wife  lived.  But  now, 
that  lady  being  dead  a  year  or  more,  it  might  be  that 
she  would  reconsider  her  refusal.  No;  Althea  did 
not  know  her  name.  She  was  said  to  be  rich. 

At  first  Constance  thought  it  an  unlikely  bit  of 
gossip;  but  if  it  were  true  her  foe  might  escape. 
She  had  fed  the  flame  of  her  anger  with  the  fuel  of 
grief,  and,  as  was  usual  with  her,  this  surrender 
to  passionate  sorrow  left  her  set  and  resolute.  She 
must  know  more,  And  so  Althea  was  petted  and 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  313 

flattered,  and  bidden  to  listen  and  report  all  she 
heard.     Meanwhile  there  was  this  other  matter. 

She  had  told  Susan  that  she  would  not  ride,  and 
now  walked  away  into  the  town,  passing  Greyhurst 
on  the  main  street.  He  had  again  the  sense  of  being 
haunted  as  the  tall  black  figure  went  by,  almost 
touching  him.  Well,  he  would  soon  be  far  away 
from  it  all.  The  face  of  Trescot  went  with  him 
still,  misty  and  delicate. 

Mrs.  Trescot  soon  found  what  she  sought,  and 
reading  on  the  sign,  "Paul  Marcel,  Land  Agent, 
Second  Story,"  went  up-stairs  and,  knocking,  was 
bidden  to  enter. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Trescot,"  she  said,  throwing  back 
her  veil. 

Marcel's  daughter  had  spoken  of  her,  but  he  him 
self  knew  her  only  by  sight.  She  accepted  a  chair 
and  began  at  once : 

"You  will  be  so  kind,  Mr.  Marcel,  as  to  consider 
my  business  confidential,  or  at  least  for  the  present. ' ' 

"Certainly,  madame."  He  was  an  old  man,  brisk 
and  alert,  with  hair  cut  short  and  upstanding  in 
a  way  that  gave  an  aggressive  expression  to  a  not 
unkindly,  clean-shaven  face.  His  accent  was  dis 
tinctly  that  of  the  old  Creole  French. 

"How  can  I  oblige  you?"  he  said. 

She  unrolled  a  small  plan  of  the  river-front. 

"Here,"  she  said,  "Mr.  Marcel,  are  our  lands. 
You  may  be  aware  that  we  gave  Mrs.  Baptiste  the 
half  of  our  river- frontage  nearest  to  the  city." 

"It  was  more  than  generous,"  he  said.  "The 
land  should  be  improved." 


314  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"Yes;  that  will  come.  Our  own  land  lies  next, 
you  observe.  WTe  have — I  do  not  now  recall  how 
many  feet.  It  is  ample ;  but  we  would  be  better  off 
if  we  owned  the  next  lots  to  the  south  of  us— I 
think  there  is  about  four  hundred  feet." 

"I  see,"  he  said.  "It  has  the  deepest  water  on 
the  entire  frontage— very  desirable.  It  belongs  to 
a  niece  of  Madame  Baptiste.  I  have  heard  some 
thing  about  it  lately.  It  can  be  bought— no  doubt 
it  can  be  bought.  The  land  beyond  it  is  of  very 
little  value  because  of  the  shallowness  of  the 
water." 

"But  with  this,"  she  asked  quickly,  "it  would 
become  valuable?" 

"Yes,  very,  of  course.  I  fancy  it  to  have  been 
acquired  with  a  view  to  subsequent  purchase  of 
Mademoiselle  Baptiste's  water-front.  The  sale  may 
have  been  already  made;  I  think  not." 

"I  should  like  to  know  as  soon  as  possible." 

"If  madame  will  wait  a  minute— ten  minutes,  to 
be  more  accurate?  The  agent  of  the  Baptistes  is 
near  by." 

Madame  would  wait.  He  went  out.  She  got  up 
and  moved  about,  impatient. 

When  he  came  back  he  said:  "I  have  learned 
that,  as  I  supposed,  it  is  for  sale.  An  offer  has  been 
made  for  it."  Then  he  hesitated,  and  said  very 
courteously:  "I  think  Madame  Trescot  should  be 
made  to  know  who  is  the  person  who  is  bidding." 

"I  do  know,"  she  returned  coldly.  "It  is  a  pure 
matter  of  business." 

"Eh  ~bien!    It  is  a  matter  of  business.    He  offers 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  315 

twelve  thousand;  they  ask  fifteen.  I  could  not  ad 
vise  that.  It  is  too  much." 

"Buy  it/'  she  said;  "and,  if  you  please,  without 
delay— now— at  once." 

"But,  madame,  it  is  inordinate.  May  I  ask  is  it 
for  the  Hood  estate?  You  will  pardon  me  if  I  say 
that  in  that  case  you  should  consult  General  Aver- 
ill." 

"It  is  for  me,  personally." 

"Ah!  that  is  so;  and  is  madame  resolved?" 

"She  is,"  said  Constance,  smiling. 

"It  can  be  bought,"  he  said,  and  went  out.  In  a 
few  moments  he  was  back  again.  "It  is  an  affair 
finished;  but  I  have  saved  you  eight  hundred  dol 
lars." 

"  Then  it  is  secure  ?  There  can  be  no  mistake  ?  It 
is  my  property?" 

Her  anxiety  struck  him  as  singular ;  but  he  made 
haste  to  reassure  her.  "Yes,  it  is  yours.  I  will  see 
to  the  titles;  but  I  know  them  as  my  hand.  In  a 
few  days  I  shall  ask  for  madame 's  check." 

'  *  Thank  you ;  but  there  must  be  no  mistake. ' ' 

"There  can  be  none.  I  have  it  in  writing,  here 
in  my  hand." 

She  thanked  him  and  went  out. 

"DiaUe!"  he  said.     "Quelle  femme!" 

On  his  way  to  the  doctor's  that  evening,  Grey- 
hurst  called  at  the  house  of  the  agent  of  Mademoi 
selle  Baptiste.  He  said:  "Monsieur  Pierre,  I  leave 
to-morrow,  to  be  gone  about  two  months.  Before  I  go 
I  should  like  to  settle  about  those  water-lots.  I 
left  you  an  offer;  you  refused  it.  What  will 


316  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

you  take?  I  must  leave  part  of  the  payment  on 
mortgage  ? ' ' 

The  agent— like  M.  Marcel,  of  Creole  descent— was 
by  no  means  friendly  to  Greyhurst ;  but  he  was  also 
very  much  afraid  of  him. 

"C'est  dommage,  monsieur.  I  too  deeply  regret. 
I  was  about  to  write." 

11  What  do  you  regret  ?  Can  you  Frenchmen  never 
speak  out  and  say  what  you  mean ! ' ' 

' '  But  I  was  sorry,  Monsieur  Greyhurst,  for  to  dis 
appoint  you.  Paul  Marcel  was  here  to-day,  and— 
the  land  is  sold." 

"Sold!" 

' '  Yes ;  I  have  consult  mademoiselle,  who  live  near 
by,  as  you  know,  and  she  say  take  it.  I  could  only 
advise  to  do  the  same.  The  offer  was  large,  and  it 
was  yes  or  no." 

"This  seems  to  me  very  strange;  I  should  have 
been  told." 

"Yes,  I  say  so.  Marcel  he  say,  'We  offer  twelve 
thousand.'  I  say,  'No.'  He  say,  'How  much?'  I 
say,  '  Fifteen  thousand. '  He  offer  fourteen  thousand. 
I  say  we  split.  Then  he  say,  '  Fourteen  thousand  two 
hundred';  and  mademoiselle,  who  was  there,  she  say 
very  quick,  'I  take  it.'  Mais,  mon  Dieu!  monsieur, 
what  could  I  do?  It  is  sold." 

Pierre  was  surprised  and  relieved  that  Greyhurst 
showed  no  anger.  In  fact,  he  was  restraining  him 
self  with  a  great  effort.  He  said :  ' '  Offer  to  take  it 
off  Marcel's  hands.  I  will  give  him  fifteen  thou 
sand.  It  is  worth  that  to  me;  but  any  one  else  is 
a  fool  to  take  it  at  your  price." 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  317 

"They  will  not  sell.     It  is  to  hold." 

"Who  bought  it?" 

Pierre  was  maliciously  enjoying  the  situation,  and 
was  made  less  timid  by  Greyhurst's  unusually  quiet 
manner. 

"It  was  bought  for  a  lady."  He  was  tormenting 
his  big  mouse,  and  liked  the  game. 

"'A  lady!'  Why  the  mischief  can't  you  an 
swer?  What  lady?" 

"It  was  Madame  Trescot." 

t  i  Damnation  !  You  two  cursed  Frenchmen  have 
sold  me  between  you ! ' ' 

"Mais,  monsieur,  what  could  be  done?  You  set 
a  limit." 

Greyhurst  made  no  reply,  but  turned  and  went 
out,  leaving  the  old  Creole  still  apologetic,  gesticu 
lating,  and  by  no  means  ill  pleased.  As  he  passed 
into  the  street,  he  pulled  down  his  hat  and  walked 
on,  looking  downward  because  of  the  vision  of  the 
smiling,  silvery  face. 

"Always  that  devil  of  a  woman!"  he  said. 
"When  will  it  end?"  Suppressed  anger  divided  his 
mind  with  the  fear  of  some  sudden  bodily  disaster 
such  as  the  phantom  seemed  to  threaten.  He  must 
live,  must  be  well.  There  was  his  child,  far  away  at 
school,  and  the  one  cherished  hope— the  little  woman 
in  Sacramento.  He  put  aside  the  business  of  the 
land.  It  was  ruinous,  and  he  began  too  fully  to  re 
alize  what  money  may  do  to  aid  a  revengeful  pur 
pose.  Forgetting  for  a  moment,  he  looked  up.  The 
face  was  there,  in  the  bustling  street  as  elsewhere. 
He  walked  faster,  speaking  to  no  one,  his  head  bent 


318  CONSTANCE  TBESCOT 

down.  He  lost  the  face  as  he  stood  on  Dr.  Eskridge's 
step  and,  looking  at  his  watch,  rang  the  bell.  He 
had  written  asking  the  doctor  to  receive  him  at  this 
hour. 

The  doctor  had  never  had  any  liking  for  the  man 
for  whom  he  was  now  waiting,  and  his  feeling  had 
been  much  intensified  by  the  fatal  consequences  of 
Greyhurst 's  ungoverned  temper.  He  had,  however, 
a  fund  of  pitiful  charity,  kept  full  by  sad  personal 
experiences  and  by  the  physician's  vast  explanatory 
knowledge  of  the  lives  of  men  and  women,  which 
accepts  heredity,  education,  and  environment  as 
matters  not  to  be  left  out  of  the  consideration  of 
disease  or  of  the  motives  of  men's  actions. 

He  was  reflecting  upon  what  had  made  Greyhurst 
what  he  was,  when  the  man  who  thus  occupied  his 
thoughts  entered  the  room.  As  they  had  met  of  late, 
on  the  street  or  elsewhere,  he  had  casually  noticed 
the  slight  loss  of  soldierly  carriage,  and  the  ab 
sence  of  a  certain  defiant  challenge  in  his  expression. 
Now,  as  they  sat  down,  he  cast  on  Greyhurst  a  quick 
look  of  observant  attention,  and  saw  that  the  large 
frame  had  lost  flesh.  He  began  to  be  curious  as  to 
the  object  of  this  visit;  but,  as  the  lawyer  had  in 
the  past  consulted  him  in  regard  to  minor  matters 
of  health,  he  knew  him  to  be  free  from  grave  organic 
maladies,  and  was  quite  unprepared  for  the  abrupt 
statement  with  which  he  began. 

"Doctor,"  he  said  as  he  sat  down,  "I  am  going 
away  to-morrow,  and  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question. 
I  have  of  late  been  troubled— not  all  the  time,  I 
ought  to  say— by  an  occasional  sensation  of  quite 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  319 

causeless  fear— well,  something  like  the  terror  a 
timid  child  has  when  alone  in  the  dark." 

"Indeed!"  said  the  doctor.  "Is  that  all,  or  is 
there  anything  else?" 

"No;  that  is  not  all.  I  have  also  been  annoyed 
by  seeing  a  face  in  the  air,  a  little  to  the  left.  It 
is  lost  when  I  look  down.  It  appears  as  if  made  of 
gossamer,  and  I  see  things  through  it.  Does  it  or 
the  other  trouble  represent  any  probability  of  mental 
failure?" 

He  was  sweating  as  he  spoke,  and  iwiped  his  fore 
head  repeatedly. 

The  doctor  toyed  with  a  paper-cutter,  a  habit  he 
had  when  intensely  interested. 

"You  are  well  otherwise?" 

"Yes.  I  have  lost  appetite  and  flesh,  but  otherwise 
I  am  as  usual.  I  should  add  that  I  still  have  at 
times  that  inexplicable  fear ;  the  vision  is  nearly  al 
ways  present.  I  cannot  get  rid  of  it." 

"Indeed!     No  headaches?" 

"No,  never;  a  slight  vertigo  now  and  then.  I 
never  drank  to  excess,  and  less  now  than  ever.  I 
smoke  too  much;  but,  you  see,  I  have  been  worried 
about  business  matters  and— about  other  things." 

"As  you  look  up,  now,  do  you  see  the  face?" 

"I  do." 

"Is  this  phantasm  that  of  a  face  you  have  ever 
seen  ? ' ' 

The  question  was  natural  and  innocent,  the  reply 
startling. 

"My  God!  doctor.  It  is  the  face  of  the  man  I 
killed!" 


320  CONSTANCE  TBESCOT 

"I  beg  pardon,  Mr.  Greyhurst.  I  am  sorry— sorry 
I  asked,  and  very  sorry  for  you.  I  could  not  have 
dreamed  of  this.  I  am  sorry." 

"I  am  glad  one  man  is  sorry.  I  am  in  a  hell  of 
sorrow. ' ' 

"That  can't  be  helped,  I  fear." 
"No,  I  suppose  not;  but  I  have  got  to  live— and 
there  is  Mathilde,  my  child.  Does  this  mean  any 
thing  serious— that  is  what  I  want  to  know— this 
specter— that  fear?  I  can  stand  it  if  it  does  not 
imply  the  nearness  of  some  mental  failure." 

"Before  I  answer,  may  I  venture  to  ask  if  this 
spectral  illusion  came  only  at  times  and  then  more 
and  more  often,  and  was  there  any  immediate  cause  ? 
Do  not  reply  if  to  do  so  annoys  you." 

Greyhurst  read  in  the  grave  and  kindly  face,  so 
keen  and  attentive,  sympathy  which  included  in 
its  charity  alike  the  weaknesses  and  the  crimes  of 
men.  He,  too,  like  others,  felt  the  human  craving 
to  escape  by  confession  from  the  loneliness  of  re 
membered  sin.  For  a  moment  he  reflected,  and  then 
said:  "I  may  as  well  tell  you  all." 

"Not  unless  it  will  help  me  to  help  you."  He  dis 
trusted  his  own  increasing  curiosity,  and  was  there 
fore  careful  as  to  how  far  he  should  invite  confi 
dences. 

"Yes,  you  may  help  me.  God  knows,  I  need  ad 
vice—counsel." 

"But  first,"  said  Eskridge,  "let  me  say  that  the 
face  you  see  will  fade  away  in  time,  unless  the  cause 
which  occasioned  it  is  repeated." 

"Of  that  I  cannot  be  sure.  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
all." 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  321 

"Very  well.     That  may  be  better." 

"I  came  by  mere  chance  upon  a  photograph  of 
Mr.  Trescot.  I  came  on  it  abruptly,  unprepared ;  and 
then  as  I  looked  up  I  saw  the  face— that  face— not 
at  all  that  of  the  photograph,  but  the  same  man, 
only— smiling." 

The  doctor  had  heard  in  his  long  life  many  strange 
things,  but  this  was  the  strangest.  He  repressed  his 
astonishment  and  said  quietly:  "Is  that  all?" 

"No;  and  I  want  to  tell  you  the  rest— all  of  it- 
all.  I  have  been,  since  my  unchecked,  spoiled  boy 
hood,  a  passionate  man.  It  wrecked  my  married 
life,  and  did  me  evil  service  during  the  war,  and 
later  in  my  career  at  the  bar.  My  Western  life 
made  it  worse— that  was  before  the  war.  The  Hood 
lawsuit  found  me  embarrassed  as  to  money  matters. 
I  lost  it,  and  I  knew  I  ought  to  have  lost  it.  Things 
Dassed  in  the  trial  which— well,  no  matter.  I  was 
insulted;  I  was  told  by— by  Trescot  that  he  was 
responsible— you  know  what  that  means  with  us.  I 
shot  that  man.  I  did  think  he  was  drawing  his  pis 
tol,  if  I  thought  at  all. ' '  He  wiped  his  forehead.  ' '  I 
did  not  think.  I  was  sorry  for  my  haste.  Since  then 
I  have  more  and  more  bitterly  regretted.  But  it  was 
done— and  I  must  live.  I  went  on  hoping  that,  with 
time,  I  should  suffer  less.  Then  Mrs.  Trescot  came 
back ;  and  from  the  time  of  her  return  I  have  been 
in  hell— no  demon  could  be  more  ingeniously  cruel 
than  that  woman." 

He  went  on  to  relate  all  that  she  had  done,  includ 
ing  the  ruining  purchase  of  the  land  on  the  river. 
Both  men  were  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  Grey- 
hurst  added: 

21 


322  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"I  can  do  nothing.  Regret— remorse,  if  you  like 
—is  the  only  thing  a  man  can  give.  I  know  what 
I  have  done;  but  I  must  live." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  doctor,  reflectively.  "Could 
you  not  go  away  and  live  elsewhere?" 

"No,  I  cannot.  I  have  my  girl  at  school  in  Cin 
cinnati,  as  you  know.  I  am,  or  I  was,  better  off ;  but 
this  land  business  seriously  embarrasses  me,  and  I 
must  take  care  of  the  child.  All  my  interests  are 
here ;  I  cannot  go  away ;  I  fear  for  what  that  woman 
may  do.  At  first  it  troubled  me,  but  I  said  to  my 
self  that  she  could  do  no  more;  now  I  am  honestly 
afraid.  I  credit  her  intelligence,  doctor,  with  ter 
rible  capacity  to  hurt  me.  Can  I  bear  this  strain? 
Am  I  now  breaking  under  it  ?  I  have  reason  to  hope 
that  I  may  marry  again.  The  lady  lives  in  Sacra 
mento.  I  hope  to  be  able  to  explain  to  her— I—" 
He  hesitated. 

"Indeed !"  exclaimed  the  doctor.  "But  you  mean 
to  tell  her?  She  will  have  heard,  of  course.  You 
will  do  well  to  be  frank." 

"Yes,  of  course.  She  knows  what  my  life  has 
been.  She,  at  least,  is  a  woman.  This  other  is  a 
devil." 

The  doctor  became  yet  more  grave.  "Whatever 
she  is,  you  may  count  on  her  unending  hatred.  If 
you  marry,— and  I  hope  you  may,— you  will  not— 
must  not— live  here." 

"No;  not  if  I  marry.  And  let  me  say  that  Miss 
Wilson  shall  know  in  the  frankest  way  just  what 
you  know.  Our  acquaintance  began  through  my 
carrying  her  wounded  brother  out  of  a  heavy  fire 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  323 

at  Antietam.  He  died,  and  I  got  a  ball  in  the 
side.  I  was  able  to  write  to  her  at  Mobile  of 
his  death,  at  a  time  when  I  was  pretty  near  it 
myself.  You  may  trust  me  as  a  gentleman  that 
she  shall  know  all.  I  believe  that  she  will  feel 
for  me." 

The  doctor  rose.  Would  he— could  he— be  really 
frank  to  her?  He  had  a  good  deal  of  doubt  as  to 
Grey  hurst's  power  to  confess  the  actual  facts  as 
others  saw  them. 

"I  must  go  now.  This  phantom  will  fade.  It  is 
really  of  no  great  moment,  and  is  no  indication  of 
failure  in  mind  or  body.  But  stay  away  as  long 
as  you  can ;  better  if  you  were  never  to  return  to  St. 
Ann." 

Greyhurst  left  him  with  a  great  sense  of  relief, 
and,  walking  homeward,  observed  that  he  had  lost 
the  smiling  face  of  George  Trescot. 

Returning  in  an  hour,  the  doctor  sat  down  with 
his  pipe  and  his  thoughts.  Both  the  personages  in 
this  sad  drama  had  told  him  their  stories.  The 
mixture  of  good  and  evil  in  these  two  lives  struck 
him.  Both  were  without  that  steadying  faith  which 
had  been  his  from  childhood.  Greyhurst  was  sim 
ply  unreligious  by  habit.  Constance  had  no  religion, 
and,  as  Susan  had  told  him,  declared  herself  simply 
indifferent.  Motives  such  as  might  otherwise  have 
helped  them  were  absent.  The  contrasts  of  Grey- 
hurst's  life  interested  him— his  unchecked  boyhood, 
his  pafeionate  nature,  his  intelligence,  his  impulsive 
ness,  his  sensitiveness,  the  incidentally  told  act  of 
self-exposing  courage.  He  felt  how  vain  it  was  to 


324  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

judge  of  human  actions  without  the  largest  know 
ledge. 

Then  he  reflected  upon  the  calm,  steadily  pursued 
revenge  of  the  woman,  with  its  dreadful  inventive 
ness,  its  implacable  hatred. 

He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  as  he  won 
dered  what  manner  of  woman  might  she  be  whom 
Greyhurst  desired  to  marry.  The  man  had  been 
scourged  by  vain  regret.  His  repentance  had  so 
modified  and  gentled  his  life  that  all  men  saw  it. 
If  the  woman  loved  him,  and  he  could  live  elsewhere 
than  in  St.  Ann,  it  might  be  the  final  solution  of 
serious  questions;  but  there  was  one  incalculable 
factor  in  this  tangle  of  human  passions— the  strong 
personality  of  Constance  Trescot.  He  lighted  his 
candle  and  went  up  to  bed,  more  than  a  little  piti 
ful  for  the  woman  who  suffered,  and  for  the  man 
who  had  caused  her  to  suffer. 


VI 


;HEN  Constance  quietly  related  to  Su 
san  what  she  had  done  about  the  land, 
the  elder  sister  was  as  near  to  reason 
able  wrath  as  it  was  possible  for  her 
to  be.  They  were  at  breakfast  when 
this  revelation  was  unintentionally  drawn  out,  not 
altogether  to  Constance's  satisfaction. 

Susan  had  said:  "I  want,  Conny,  to  put  a  new 
roof  on  the  church,  and  I  thought  you  would  like  to 
buy  the  land  northwest  of  the  churchyard.  They 
talk  of  stables  there." 

' '  The  church  roof  does  not  interest  me ;  the  other 
does,  Susan.     But  I  cannot  buy  anything  now.     I 
have  found  use  for  all  my  spare  income." 
Susan  looked  up.    "And  for  what?" 
"You  may  as  well  know  it  from  me,  sister.    Some 
one  will  be  sure  to  tell  you,   and   I   suppose  this 
wretched  little  town  will  feed  its  gossip  with  this 
for  a  month  of  orphan  sewing-circles." 
"What  have  you  been  doing  now,  Conny?" 
"I  have  paid  an  extravagant  price  for  the  strip  of 
frontage  next  to  ours.    Mr.  Greyhurst  owns  the  lots 
beyond  it.     His  land  is  valueless  without  the  addi 
tion  of  the  deep-water  front  between  us.    He  was  in 
treaty  for  the  Baptiste  strip,  and  I  bought  it.     I 
said  I  meant  to  ruin  him.     I  had  to  tell  you.    I  do 

325 


326  CONSTANCE  TKESCOT 

not  like  to  talk  of  it.  But  I  will  not  be  lectured. 
It  is  perfectly  useless.  What  I  feel  you  can  never 
feel.  I  am  glad  to  be  alone  in  what  I  do,  and  I  am 
not  yet  done  with  him." 

She  spoke  with  increasing  passion,  more  and  more 
rapidly,  sitting  forward  erect,  as  poor  Susan,  aston 
ished,  let  fall  her  egg-spoon  and  fell  back  in  her 
chair. 

"I  have  seen  all  along  that  I  make  you  unhappy. 
As  compared  to  the  personal  justice  I  am  dealing 
out  where  other  justice  failed,  I  hardly  care.  But 
neither  affection  nor  opinion  shall  come  between 
me  and  that  man.  I  think  you  set  the  doctor  to 
warning  me.  He  did.  What  was  health  of  mind 
or  body  compared  to  this?  I  suppose  it  will  be  the 
preacher  next.  But  I  advise  you  not  to  try  that. 
Let  us  say  no  more,  or  we  shall  quarrel. ' ' 

"You  say,  dearest  sister,  let  us  say  no  more.  It 
is  you  who  furnished  both  text  and  sermon.  I  have 
said  next  to  nothing.  I  asked  nothing.  It  was  you, 
and  you  alone,  who  began  it." 

The  plain,  good-natured  face  was  tearful  as  she 
went  on:  "We  can  never  quarrel.  That  is  impos 
sible.  But  I  think  you  both  unkind  to  me  and  un 
just,  as  I  have  never  reopened  this  most  painful 
subject.  I  do  not  say  that  I  never  meant  to.  You 
spoke  of  the  rector,  and  of  what  I  might  ask  him 
to  do ;  and  lest  you  should  again  misunderstand  me, 
I  may  as  well  say  now"— and  she  calmed  herself  a 
little  as  she  spoke— "that  Mr.  Kent  intends  to  call 
on  you  again.  I  wish  you  to  know  that.  I  did  not 
ask  him  to  do  so.  I  have  never  dreamed  of  asking 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  327 

him  to  interfere.  I  have  never  thought  of  doing  so. 
I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  he  has  never  spoken 
of  what  you  have  been  doing.  Everybody  talks  of  it. 
I  think  Mrs.  Dudley  may  have  spoken  to  him  of 
your  strange  conduct,  and  he  has  mentioned  some 
things  to  me  which  I  had  never  heard  of,  and  which  I 
trust  may  not  be  true.  But,  dear  Conny,  you  are 
the  talk  of  the  town." 

"I  do  not  care." 

"That  is  the  worst  of  it."  She  paused,  and  then 
added:  "But  I  will  say  no  more.  I  have  done,  and 
when  you  say  that  not  even  affection  for  me  would 
check  you,  it  is  time  I  ceased  to  speak." 

Constance  studied  the  pained  face  a  moment,  and 
then  returned:  "Yes,  we  had  better  stop  here;  and 
as  to  your  rector,  I  apologize.  I  did  not  imagine 
you  cared.  I  have  no  fancy  for  clergymen;  but 
if  you  want  me  to  see  him,  I  will." 

"Oh,  I  don't  care  whether  you  see  him  or  not." 
Susan's  temper  was  failing  her  at  last. 

"Susan,"  said  Constance,  "that  is  n't  like  you. 
I  don't  want  to  hurt  you.  If  I  have  said  too  much, 
forgive  me." 

"Oh,  Conny!  You  have  done  so  much  that  it  is 
hard  to  forgive  where  I  so  constantly  disapprove." 

"Yes,  that  may  be.  I  can't  help  it.  As  for  Mr. 
Kent,  I  know  you  wish  me  to  see  him.  I  will,  I  will. 
I  presume,"  she  added  lightly,  "that  he  will  not 
undertake  my  reformation." 

"He  is  a  gentleman,  and  my  friend."  Susan 
flushed  a  little  as  she  stood  up.  "I  must  go  to  my 
Bible-class.  I  almost  forgot  it.  Good-by." 


328  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

Constance  sat  still.  She  was  pleased  to  do  some 
thing  that  would  be  agreeable  to  Susan.  She  would 
see  Mr.  Kent.  He  had  come  to  St.  Ann  to  relieve 
a  clerical  friend  who  had  fallen  ill,  and  upon  the 
rector  resigning  had  accepted  his  parish.  She  knew 
no  more  than  this ;  but  was  it  possible  that  Susan- 
No;  it  was  absurd.  Susan  would  never  leave  her, 
and  had  often  laughed  at  what  she  called  these 
"Sunday-school  unions."  She  had,  however,  no 
ticed  Susan's  slight  embarrassment  and  her  unusu 
ally  quick  show  of  resentment  when  Constance  had 
spoken  of  Kent.  Yes;  she  was  perfectly  sure  that 
Susan  would  never  marry,  and  that  they  would 
never  be  parted.  And  still  the  thought  left  her 
a  little  uneasy. 

Greyhurst  had  been  away  for  a  week;  but  the 
news  about  the  land  purchase  lent  fresh  zest  to  the 
gossip  which  so  greatly  annoyed  the  Averills.  Colo 
nel  Dudley  had  been  confidential  to  Mrs.  Dudley 
concerning  Greyhurst 's  affairs,  and  she  in  turn  to 
others,  some  of  whom  were  of  opinion  that  Con 
stance's  mind  had  given  way— a  decision  not  easily 
accepted  by  those  who  met  her  in  her  own  home 
and  knew  of  her  care  of  the  poor,  and  of  the  in 
telligent  interest  with  which  she  talked  of  books 
and  the  politics  of  the  day.  She  was  living  a  double 
life. 

It  was  now  past  Christmas,  and  clear  and  cold, 
when,  one  morning,  Susan  set  out  to  visit  Mrs.  Av- 
erill,  her  sole  confidante.  The  old  lady  had  again 
felt  it  a  duty  to  express  herself  so  freely  that  Con 
stance,  resentful  of  interference,  now  visited  the 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  329 

Averills  but  rarely.  She  had  also  had  an  unpleasant 
interview  with  the  general  in  regard  to  her  purchase 
of  land. 

Susan  found  neither  help  nor  comfort  from  her 
friend,  and  only  the  relief  of  being  able  to  cry  like 
a  child— with  the  sad  companionship  of  the  tears 
of  an  older  woman. 

Coming  out  of  the  house  with  red  eyes,  and  very 
conscious  of  an  emotional  breakdown,  she  saw  the 
rector,  Mr.  Kent,  coming  up  the  street  from  the 
town.  He  moved  slowly,  and  seemed  to  Susan  to 
be  deep  in  study  of  the  broken  boards  of  the  side 
walk. 

Susan  was  of  no  mind  to  meet  him  just  now. 
Their  intimacy  had  reached  the  stage  which  permits 
of  sympathetic  curiosity,  ,and  she  was  aware  that 
her  eyes  were  red.  She  waited  to  let  him  go  by ;  but 
turning  in  at  Averill's  gate,  his  face  lighted  up  as 
the  woman  descended  the  steps  and  they  met. 

He  saw  that  she  had  been  crying,  but  merely  said : 

"A  fine  frosty  day,  Miss  Susan;  a  pleasant  re 
minder  of  New  England." 

''Yes,  I  like  it;  and,  indeed,  I  wish  I  were  there." 

"Shall  I  find  you  at  home  this  afternoon?" 

"No;  we  ride  to-day." 

"But  it  is  dark  early.  Perhaps  late,  on  your  re 
turn?" 

"Very  well,  then,  late;  and,  by  the  way,  my  sis 
ter  will  see  you." 

"I  am  glad  of  that— at  six,  then." 

He  turned  to  go,  hesitated,  and  said:  "You  are 
troubled,  I  fear.  I  can  easily  guess  why,  and  I  can- 


330  CONSTANCE  TBESCOT 

not  wonder  at  it.  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  help 
you." 

"No  one  can  do  that." 

"It  is  needless  to  hide  from  you,  Miss  Susan, 
what  every  one  knows.  That  miserable  man  has  gone 
away.  Will  not  that  put  an  end  to  your  sister's 
strange  conduct?" 

"It  might  with  any  one  else.  It  will  not  with 
her.  From  her  childhood  it  has  been  like  this.  You 
are  very  kind,  but  it  is  like  the  possession  one  reads 
of— no  one  can  help  her  or  me.  But  I  must  go — 
good-by. ' ' 

He  had  seen  much  of  her  in  the  parish  work  and 
elsewhere,  and  now,  as  often  before,  noted  with 
pleasure  the  two  gifts  she  had  in  common  with  Con 
stance—the  charm  of  grace  in  movement,  and,  with 
less  height,  a  faultless  figure.  He  quite  forgot  his 
intention  to  call  on  Mrs.  Averill,  and  remained  for 
a  moment  looking  after  Susan  Hood. 

Dr.  Eskridge,  on  the  farther  side  of  the  street, 
benevolently  regarded  this  interview  and  its  results, 
when  Kent,  seeing  himself  observed,  crossed  over, 
guiltily  conscious,  like  a  boy  caught  in  an  apple- 
orchard,  but  as  yet  regretfully  innocent  of  the  joy 
of  transferred  property. 

"If  you  are  going  my  way,"  said  the  doctor,  "I 
will  walk  with  you ;  but  you  must  remember  the  an 
tiquity  of  nfy  legs,  and  not  travel  at  your  usual  rate. 
A  fellow  must  begin  to  be  old  somewhere.  I  am  as 
well  pleased  that  it  is  not  in  the  head.  You  have 
been  in  the  mountains,  I  hear.  Get  any  deer?" 

"Yes,  three;  and  I  had  some  queer  experiences. 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  331 

It  is  like  nothing  I  ever  saw  elsewhere.  I  camped 
in  the  snow  with  a  mild-looking  little  man  who  is 
said  to  have  killed  three  men.  He  explained  to  me, 
in  a  casual  way,  that  he  preferred  to  avoid  a  certain 
settlement  because  a  man  lived  there  whose  father 
he  had  shot." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Eskridge,  ''that  it  was  one  of 
those  well-preserved  vendettas." 

"Yes;  just  that.  He  remarked  that  it  would  n't 
matter  if  he  were  alone;  but  he  did  n't  want  to  get 
me  into  trouble.  We  were  lying  by  the  camp-fire 
at  night,  and  he  went  on  to  tell  me  of  his  quarrel, 
much  as  you  might  of  any  of  the  commonplaces  of 
life." 

"Did  you  take  his  morals  in  hand?"  said  the  doc 
tor,  with  a  questioning  look  at  the  strong  face  of  the 
younger  man,  for  whom  he  had  both  respect  and 
friendly  regard. 

"No,  not  then.  I  did  not  see  my  way.  Later 
in  the  evening  he  asked  me  what  I  did  for  a  living. 
I  said  I  was  a  preacher,  an  Episcopal  clergyman. 
This  appeared  to  interest  him.  He  said  there  were 
none  of  that  kind  in  the  hills — only  Methodists. 
Upon  this  I  asked  if  they  preached  against  killing 
one  another.  He  said  yes;  but  when  a  man  shot 
one  of  your  people,  what  could  you  do?  I  could 
only  reply  that  Christ  taught  us  to  forgive  injuries. 
He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  said:  'It 
would  n't  work  in  the  mountains,  because,  next 
thing,  the  fellow  would  kill  you  to  get  clear  of  your 
killing  him ;  and  where,  then,  would  the  forgiveness 
come  in?'  " 


332  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

The  doctor  laughed.  "I  should  have  been  puz 
zled  to  reply,  or  at  least  so  as  to  be  of  any  real  use. 
What  did  you  say?" 

"What  could  I  say?  The  very  basis  of  the  morals 
of  forgiveness  was  wanting.  I  tried  to  clear  the 
ground  a  little.  He  listened,  and  when  at  last  I 
quoted,  'Vengeance  is  mine;  I  will  repay,  saith  the 
Lord,'  he  said  he  had  'knowed'  that  tried  by  fel 
lows  that  were  afraid,  and  had  n't  ever  seen  that 
it  worked." 

' '  It  must  be  a  strange  life, ' '  said  Eskridge.  ' '  But, 
Kent,  here  we  have  in  this  little  town  a  woman 
who  is  no  better  than  your  friend.  A  stranger 
story  could  hardly  be.  Doctors,  soon  or  late,  hear 
everything;  and  I  perhaps  know  more  of  it  than 
any  one  else.  I  have  long  meant  to  talk  to  you 
about  it.  Both  these  sisters  must  be  suffering. 
May  I  ask  if  you  have  any  influence  with  Mrs. 
Trescot?" 

"None  at  all,  doctor.  She  has,  I  fear,  like  these 
men,  nothing  to  which  I  can  appeal." 

"And  Miss  Susan?" 

"She  has  failed— altogether  failed." 

The  doctor  reflected  with  approval  on  the  inti 
macy  with  Susan  which  enabled  Kent  to  answer 
as  he  had  done. 

"Well,  the  man  has  gone  away.  I  hear  from  more 
than  one  source  that  he  is  engaged  to  a  Miss  Jean- 
ette  Wilson.  We  used  at  one  time  to  see  her  here, 
a  very  sweet,  intelligent,  pretty  girl,  with  a  great 
deal  of  money.  If  it  be  true,  this  may  end  a  fool 
ish  and  wicked  business  and  enable  Greyhurst  to 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  333 

live  elsewhere,  as  I  am  assured  he  would  very  gladly 
do." 

"It  is  almost  too  good  to  be  true.  Do  you  think, 
doctor,  that  he  has  ever  sincerely  repented  of  that 
awful  murder?  I  hear  men  say  so." 

"Repented,  Kent?  No!  Not  in  your  sense.  I 
am  sure  that  he  is  punished  by  regret  and  the  most 
honest  self-reproach.  I  know  that  he  suffers.  Mrs. 
Trescot  has  punished  him  with  such  ingenuity  of 
revenge  as  almost  makes  one  pity  the  man.  This  last 
land  business  has  terribly  embarrassed  him  in  regard 
to  money.  But  the  course  she  has  taken  has  inflicted 
suffering  of  various  kinds  on  innocent  people, — 
and,  above  all,  on  her  sister— to  me  the  finer  nature 
of  the  two." 

"Yes,  her  sister,"  repeated  Kent,  softly.  "Per 
haps,  when  Mrs.  Trescot  learns  of  this  other  wo 
man,  she  will  give  up." 

"I  hardly  think  so.  Le  (Liable  d'une  idee  is  a  very 
persistent  fiend,  and  very  mischievous." 

"Yes;  the  devil  of  one  idea,"  said  Kent. 

While  the  two  men  were  thus  discussing  her, 
Constance,  liking  the  cold  air  and  the  brilliant  sun 
shine,  was  seated  on  the  back  porch.  She  was  re 
flecting  with  her  too  habitual  intensity  upon  what 
she  had  done.  There  were  minutes  when  she  was 
made  vaguely  uneasy  by  the  gradual  failure  of  her 
interest  in  books  and  flowers,  and  by  her  difficulty 
in  setting  aside  schemes  which  she  knew  to  be  ut 
terly  vain.  Moreover,  the  satisfaction  she  promised 
herself  in  creating  misery  and  adding  ruin  was  not 
such  as  she  had  expected.  How  much  Greyhurst 


334  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

had  suffered  she  had  not  fully  known  until,  in  his 
few  and  only  words  to  her,  he  had  let  her  see  that 
she  had  inflicted  lasting  pain.  How  would  it  end? 
The  man  had  gone,  and  she  was  at  the  limit  of  her 
resources. 

When  she  thought  of  this,  and  of  Susan,  and  of 
the  pain  she  had  given  the  Averills,  to  whom  she 
owed  so  much  kindness  in  those  darkest  hours,  she 
said:  ''Why  not  stop  here?"  It  was,  save  once  be 
fore,  almost  literally  her  first  moment  of  doubt  or 
indecision ;  but  then,  as  if  a  giant  fate  were  shutting 
out  all  other  paths,  her  obsession  rose  again  dom-- 
inant,  and  deprived  her  of  liberty  to  reflect  or  to 
marshal  the  forces  of  reason.  She  stood  up,  and 
felt,  as  she  did  so,  some  sense  of  inertness,  some 
lack  of  her  usual  strength  of  body. 

She  rode  with  Susan  in  the  afternoon,  as  they 
had  agreed  to  do,  and,  returning,  went  up  to  change 
her  dress. 

Susan  was  still  at  the  door  and  giving  the  black 
maid  some  household  directions  when  Mr.  Kent  came 
up  the  garden  path  from  the  street.  He  knew  that 
his  visit  was  welcome.  The  plain,  sweet  face,  with 
its  humorous  lines,  made  that  distinct  enough.  In 
fact,  he  was  the  one  person  whose  presence  insured 
her  happy  talk  and  freedom  from  the  thought  of 
what  dreadful  surprise  Constance  might  have  in 
store  with  which  to  trouble  her  life. 

She  thanked  him  for  the  venison  he  had  sent,  and 
they  fell  into  talk  of  his  mountain  journey,  the 
scenery  of  the  hills,  and  the  books  constantly  sup 
plied  from  the  East. 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  335 

At  last  he  said:  ''Does  your  sister  read  much?" 

"No;  not  of  late.  In  fact,  my  sister  never  was  a 
great  reader;  and  now  she  is  too  uneasy,  too  rest 
less-minded,  to  sit  down  to  a  book." 

"That  seems  a  pity.  Books  are  sometimes  such 
blessed  apostles.  But  to  get  good  out  of  them,  or 
help  or  consolation,  does  require  a  certain  tempera 
ment  and  the  habit  of  books.  After  all,  readers, 
like  poets,  are  born,  not  made." 

"Yes,  the  habit  of  books;  she  never  had  that.  Do 
you  know  Lord  Macaulay's  verses  about  this  thing 
—the  comforting  of  books?" 

"No,  I  do  not." 

"I  have  a  poor  memory  for  quotations.  I  envy 
the  people  who  possess  a  remembered  library  of 
poetry.  There  is  one  of  the  verses  which  I  sup 
pose  I  am  able  to  recall,  because  I  liked  it  more  than 
the  rest.  He  is  telling  of  the  gift  of  love  of  litera 
ture  which  the  fairy  godmother  gave  him  at  birth. 

"  'Fortune  that  lays  in  sport  the  mighty  low, 

Age  that  to  penance  turns  the  joys  of  youth, 
Shall  leave  untouched  the  gifts  which  I  bestow, 
The  sense  of  beauty  and  the  thirst  for  truth. '  ' ' 

"I  like  that,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  the  whole 
poem." 

"I  will  send  you  the  book  to-morrow.  I  must 
confess  that,  of  late,  not  even  books  are  capable  of 
distracting  my  mind.  My  sister  is  evidently  fail 
ing  in  health.  She  is  becoming  more  and  more 
silent,  and  she  is  gradually  losing  interest  in  the 


336  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

charitable  work  she  did  so  well;  in  fact,  I—"  here 
she  paused,  feeling,  with  the  defensive  instincts  of 
a  woman,  that  these  advances  in  the  direction  of  per 
sonal  statements  were  somewhat  perilous. 

With  some  realization  of  her  state  of  mind,  he  said 
quickly:  "Yes,  I  can  imagine  how  trying  it  must 
all  be  to  you.  If  I  can  be  of  any  use,  I  am  sure  you 
must  know  how  entirely  I  am  at  your  service;  and 
if  to  talk  of  this  trouble  hurts  and  does  not  help, 
let  us  drop  it." 

The  look  of  anxious  kindness  on  the  man's  face 
as  he  leaned  toward  her,  the  sense  that  here  was  the 
sympathy  of  a  strong  and  comprehending  manhood, 
in  some  way,  of  a  sudden,  weakened  her  habitual 
self-control. 

Repressed  here  and  troubled  there,  missing  the  old 
affection,  the  demand  for  love  and  attention,  of 
Constance's  former  days,  Susan's  gentle  spirit,  to 
which  love  meant  so  much,  to  her  dismay,  gave  way, 
and  she  began  to  show  in  tears  the  too  visible  signals 
of  distress. 

"Oh,  Susan,"  he  said,  "I  am  so  sorry  for  you! 
I  know,  of  course.  I  know  what  is  hurting  you.  I 
wish  I  could  tell  you  how  much  it  all  means  to  me." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  "I  know"— wiping  her  eyes; 
"you  are— you  have  been  both  good  and  helpful. 
But  it  goes  on  and  on,  and  I  am  afraid.  I  live  in 
constant  fear  of  what  to-morrow  may  bring." 

"Let  me  have  the  right  to  end  it  all— the  right 
to  speak  for  you  as  you  cannot." 

"No,  no."  She  shook  her  head  and  sat  tapping  her 
skirt  mechanically  with  her  riding- whip. 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  337 

He  took  her  hand.     "This  must  not  go  on." 

"Hush,"  she  said.    "Here  comes  Constance." 

As  they  stood  up,  she  raised  his  hand  to  her  lips. 

He  bent  over  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"You  must  not,"  she  said  shyly. 

"But  I  did,"  he  replied;  and,  as  they  drew  apart, 
Susan,  flushed,  tearful,  and  not  unhappy,  said 
quickly:  "I  must  go— oh,  do  let  me  go!"  and  leav 
ing  him,  passed  in  haste  through  the  back  parlor  and 
up-stairs. 

At  another  or  an  earlier  day,  the  unusual  speed 
of  Susan's  exit,  and  Kent's  slightly  embarrassed 
look,  would  not  have  escaped  notice  from  Constance, 
who  now  entered  from  the  hall.  The  younger  sis 
ter  was,  however,  freed  from  suspicion  by  the  too 
constant  ideas  which  occupied  her  mind.  She  said 
graciously:  "I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Kent; 
and  how  delicious  your  venison  was ! ' ' 

At  times  she  had  seen  him  in  the  street,  and  twice 
at  the  Averills';  but,  except  for  a  moment,  never 
in  her  home  or  elsewhere.  Something  in  his  gen 
eral  bearing  disturbed  her ;  was  it  because  he  looked 
like  some  one?  He  had  very  little  of  the  conven 
tional  clergyman  in  dress  or  manner,  and  Constance 
knew  in  a  minute  or  two  that  she  was  talking  to  a 
man  of  her  own  class,  and  accustomed  to  the  ways 
and  habits  of  a  larger  world  than  she  had  found 
at  St.  Ann. 

"I  must  say  to  you,  Mrs.  Trescot,  how  much  plea 
sure  it  gives  me  to  see  you.  I  am  kept  pretty  busy 
among  these  unlucky  freedmen,  who  are  like  chil 
dren,  and  I  have  had  very  little  time  for  social 

22 


338  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

visits."  She  recognized  and  liked  the  tact  which 
thus  set  her  free  from  need  to  explain  why  she  had 
not  seen  more  of  him.  She  found  herself  saying 
with  cordiality  that  she  hoped  he  would  find  time 
in  the  future,  and  that,  as  he  rode  often,  he  would 
be  able  to  join  them— a  pleasure  which  Susan  had 
refused  him,  believing  that  Constance  would  be 
ill  pleased. 

"I  should  like  nothing  better,"  he  said;  "I  came 
near  to  taking  that  liberty  last  Tuesday ;  but  I  had 
to  hurry  home." 

''I  saw  you  ahead  of  us,"  she  returned,  "and 
told  my  sister  that  you  had  the  cavalry  seat,  and 
that  you  must  have  seen  service.  Susan  did  not 
appear  to  know,  and  I  was  rather  curious." 

"Oh,  Miss  Susan,"  he  said  to  himself,  "you  did 
not  know!"  There  was  little  about  his  life  which 
that  lady  did  not  know. 

He  replied:  "Yes,  I  was  born  in  North  Carolina; 
but  I  was  educated  at  a  seminary  in  the  North,  and 
had  a  parish  in  Portland  when  the  war  broke  out. 
I  thought  the  North  right  and  I  served  as  a  chap 
lain  in  the  Eighth  Maine.  I  came  here  on  a  holi 
day  to  relieve  a  sick  friend,  and  when  he  gave  up 
I  accepted  the  parish.  At  first  I  had  trouble,  but 
now  I  get  on  well  enough.  It  is  impossible  not 
to  like  these  people.  When  once  they  accept  you 
there  is  no  limit  to  their  kindness;  and  as  I  was  a 
Southern  man  who  had  been  in  the  Northern  army, 
I  was  surprised  to  find  how  soon  I  was  made  to  feel 
at  home." 

Again  the  smile,  and  something  in  his  face  taxed 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  339 

her  memory.  She  said:  "They  were  most  kind  to 
me  in  my  great  trouble— most  kind.  I  shall  never 
forget  it." 

"Mrs.  Trescot,"  he  said,  "as  you  have  spoken  of 
that  sad  calamity,  may  I  venture  to  say  that  I  am 
a  distant  cousin  of  George  Trescot?  My  grand 
father  went  from  Massachusetts  to  Carolina." 

Then  Constance  understood.  There  was  some 
occasional  reminder  in  Kent  of  her  husband's  face. 
She  said,  with  something  of  her  old  interest: 
' '  There  is  a  likeness ;  it  is  very,  very  pleasant  to  me. 
I  wonder  that  Susan  never  spoke  of  it."  Susan 
had  her  own  reasons  for  saying  very  little  to  her 
sister.  "But  Susan  is  so  wrapped  up  in  her  poor, 
and  your  Bible-class,  and  the  freedmen,  that  very 
little  else  interests  her,"— which  was  not  Reginald 
Kent's  opinion. 

Then  the  talk  fell  upon  the  stormy  politics  of  the 
day,  and  the  last  novel  of  Thackeray,  which  she  had 
not  read.  As  he  talked— and  he  talked  well— he 
felt,  rather  than  saw,  that  he  soon  failed  to  interest 
Mrs.  Trescot. 

As  he  rose,  Constance  said:  "You  will  come 
again?" 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "it  will  give  me  great  pleasure." 
She  watched  him  as  he  went,  and  said  to  herself : 
"Well,  for  a  clergyman,  that  is  an  unusual  man." 
He  had  said  not  a  word   of  her   absence   from 
church— nor,  in  fact,  anything  to  remind  her  that 
he   was   a   clergyman.      That  he    rode   well,    could 
rough  it   with  the  mountain-men,   hunt   on   snow- 
shoes — all  were  to  Constance's  liking;  but,  above  all, 


340  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

that  he  had  been  in  the  army  of  the  North  pleased 
her.  She  spoke  pleasantly  of  him  that  evening  at 
dinner,  for  they  kept  to  their  late  Northern  hours. 
She  thought  him  a  gentleman  and  interesting.  Su 
san  was  of  like  opinion,  but  was  discreetly  careful,  as 
was  advisable  with  Constance,  for  a  variety  of  rea 
sons. 

She  said  to  Susan :  * '  He  told  me  of  his  distant  re 
lationship  to  George." 

' '  Indeed  ! ' '  said  the  sister,  surprised,  for  of  Tres- 
cot  Constance  rarely  spoke. 

"Yes;  did  you  not  observe  the  resemblance,  Su 
san?  It  is  slight." 

"Now  that  you  mention  it,  I  do,"  returned  the 
sister,  mildly  disingenuous,  and  looking  down  at 
her  plate.  "I  am  glad  you  liked  him." 

"Do  you?  Oh,  of  course  you  do.  You  like  all 
clergymen. ' ' 

"Yes,  more  or  less." 

The  man  of  whom  they  talked  was  pleased  with 
his  visit.  He  had  made  himself  agreeable,  as  he 
had  meant  to  do,  and  now  went  on  his  way,  whistling 
softly  in  unclerical  fashion.  He  was  wise  enough 
not  to  call  soon  again  on  Mrs.  Trescot.  There  were 
other  chances  of  seeing  Susan  Hood,  and  as  her  sis 
ter  now  rode  more  rarely,  he  found  added  oppor 
tunities  of  being  alone  with  the  woman  he  loved. 

The  month  of  January  passed,  and  the  first  two 
weeks  of  February.  Greyhurst  was  still  absent,  and 
Constance  was  moodily  brooding  over  the  sudden 
termination  of  her  means  of  carrying  out  her  pur 
pose.  It  had  become  so  despotic  in  its  rule  as  to 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  341 

make  all  else  secondary  in  value,  and,  as  is  the  case 
with  the  domination  of  a  fixed  idea,  to  impair,  in 
time,  the  competence  of  will  and  of  reason.  Thought 
is  then  emotionally  disturbed,  and,  soon  or  late,  mere 
indecision  and  indefinite  craving  replace  resolute 
and  well-considered  plans  of  action.  Constance  was 
near  the  verge  of  such  a  condition,  but  still  far 
enough  away  to  feel  alarmed  at  her  lessened  effi 
ciency.  She  was  irritable,  spent  more  time  alone, 
rode  less  frequently,  and  became  indifferent  as  re 
garded  her  charities— all  of  which  the  watchful, 
worried  sister  saw  with  the  alarm  of  undiminished 
affection.  The  pale  face  was  thinner,  the  set  look, 
as  she  stood  at  times  listless  and  unoccupied,  more 
intense.  Meanwhile  gossip  ceased,  or,  for  lack  of 
novel  occasion,  became  uninteresting;  and,  because 
of  heavy  rain,  the  river  was  rising  and  causing  alarm 
and  excitement.  There  was  something  more  serious 
to  occupy  attention  than  Mrs.  Trescot's  strange 
ways. 

Miss  Althea  Le  Moine  still  called  on  Constance; 
but,  her  visits  being  no  longer  helpful,  Constance  sat 
still  while  she  talked  feebly  about  the  home  and  the 
floods,  dimly  conscious  that  her  useful  patroness 
was  losing  interest. 


VII 


ATE  in  February  occurred  the  monthly 
meeting  of  the  women  who  managed 
the  home  for  orphans. 

After  the  session,  Althea  was  called 
in  to  answer  questions  and  receive  di 
rections.  The  business  having  been  concluded,  the 
ladies  lingered. 

Mrs.  Dudley  said:  "I  hear  that  the  river  is  fall 
ing.  It  dropped  five  inches  last  night." 

11  Indeed!"  returned  Miss  Bland.  "That  is  good 
news.  But,  dear  me,  what  a  dull  winter  it  has  been ! 
I  was  driving  yesterday  when  I  met  Susan  Hood, 
on  horseback,  with  Mr.  Kent.  I  cannot  imagine 
what  he  sees  in  that  homely  old  maid.  They  can't 
talk  Sunday-school  all  the  time." 

"She  is  anything  but  homely,"  said  Mrs.  Averill, 
who  loved  Susan  and  disliked  gossip.  "Plain,  if 
you  like,  but  surely  not  homely;  and  any  one  must 
admit  that  she  has  a  perfect  figure." 

* '  Oh,  that  's  her  gowns, ' '  remarked  Miss  Marcel. 

Mrs.  Averill  smiled  as  she  regarded  Miss  Marcel's 
gaunt  outlines,  but  was  too  kindly  to  do  more  than 
whisper  to  her  neighbor,  Mrs.  March,  who  smiled 
in  answer  as  Mrs.  Dudley  remarked  aloud:  "She  is 
not  too  much  of  an  old  maid  either  for  fine  gowns  or 
for  a  clerical  flirtation. ' ' 

342 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  343 

"Oh,  that  would  be  too  absurd!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Bland,  who  had  of  late  developed  a  novel  interest 
in  altar  decorations  and  Sunday-schools. 

"He  is  certainly  very  handsome,"  said  Mrs. 
Averill,  a  little  annoyed  and  more  than  a  little 
amused. 

Mrs.  March  laughed.  "My  dear  Eliza,"— this 
was  to  Miss  Bland,— "Miss  Hood  may  be  plain,  but 
her  fortune  is  also  plain;  and,  really,  clergymen  do 
seem  to  capture  the  rich  girls  in  a  remarkable  way. ' ' 

"Do  not  you  think,"  said  Mrs.  Averill,  in  her 
most  quiet  manner — "do  not  you  think  that  we  are 
gossiping  just  a  little  more  than  is  advisable?" 

"You  are  quite  right,"  said  Mrs.  March;  "I 
agree  with  you,  Eleanor.  But  I  do  love  a  good  talk 
about  our  neighbors;  and,  after  all,  we  have  not 
been  very  vicious." 

Mrs.  Dudley,  eager  for  an  opportunity,  remarked : 
"Well,  we  shall  see.  But  have  you  heard  the  latest 
news  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  what  is  it?"  said  Miss  Marcel. 

"Colonel  Dudley  consented  to  take  charge  of  Mr. 
Grey  hurst's  affairs  while  he  was  away— but  that 
is  not  all." 

"Was  he  not  terribly  broken  up  by  that  extraor 
dinary  land  purchase?"  asked  Mrs.  March. 

"Oh,  awfully." 

"It  has  always  seemed  to  me,"  said  Miss  Bland, 
"that  Constance  Trescot's  conduct  was  most  un 
womanly.  ' ' 

"And  unchristian,  I  should  say,"  added  Miss 
Marcel,  tartly. 


344  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

"I  am  sure  that  you  will  pardon  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Averill,  rising,  ' '  if  I  remind  you  that  you  are  speak 
ing  of  a  woman  to  whom  our  home  is  deeply  in 
debted,  and  also  that  she  is  my  friend." 

"I  know,"  said  Miss  Bland.  "But,  really,  Mrs. 
Averill-" 

"No  matter,  my  dear,"  returned  the  old  lady. 
"Let  us  drop  it.  I  am  sure  you  must  agree  with  me 
when  you  come  to  think  about  it." 

"But  I  really  must  tell  you  my  news,"  said  Mrs. 
Dudley,  as  they  stood,  about  to  leave.  "Mr.  Grey- 
hurst  is  engaged  to  be  married." 

Even  Mrs.  Averill  stopped,  surprised  into  interest. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  two  or  three  in  a  breath. 

"I  am  sorry  for  her,  whoever  she  may  be,"  said 
Mrs.  Averill.  "Can  she  know  the  man?" 

"She  is  a  Miss  Jeanette  Wilson.  I  think  you 
know  her,  Mrs.  Averill.  They  were  Mobile  people. 
She  is  very  well  off,  and— 

"Oh,  I  remember  her,"  broke  in  Miss  Marcel. 
"She  was  here,  staying  in  the  country,  just  after 
the  war— a  little  woman,  a  blonde.  You  met  her, 
Eliza,"  she  added,  turning  to  Miss  Bland. 

"Yes,  a  very  quiet  girl.  I  thought  her  mighty 
dull.  Well,  that  is  news ! ' ' 

Miss  Marcel  went  out  with  Miss  Bland,  talking 
volubly  as  to  what  that  terrible  Mrs.  Trescot  would 
think  of  it. 

Mrs.  Averill  walked  homeward  with  Mrs.  March. 
For  a  few  moments  both  were  busy  with  their  own 
reflections  concerning  what  they  had  just  heard.  At 
last  Mrs.  March  said : 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  345 

"Eleanor,  I  wonder  if  it  is  really  true?  You 
know  the  quality  of  Jane  Dudley's  gossip.  I  have 
had  reason  to  remember  it." 

"I  should  be  glad  if  it  were  true,  for— well,  for 
Constance  Trescot's  sake.  It  would  put  an  end  to 
this  unnatural  vendetta." 

"Is  it  unnatural,  Eleanor?  Unusual,  I  grant  you 
that;  but  only  too  natural.  Think  of  the  other 
woman !  I  shall  want  more  certain  information  be 
fore  I  believe  it.  You  must  recall  the  girl." 

"I  do,  of  course.  She  was  here  just  after  the 
war;  a  very  pretty  blonde,  with  very  gentle  ways. 
She  must  be  by  this  time  about  twenty-five." 

"Old  enough  to  know  better." 

"Yes;  but— ah,  well,  it  is  vain  to  discuss  love- 
affairs;  no  one  ever  knows  the  why  and  the  where 
fore—least  of  all  the  people  most  concerned." 

"Yes;  I  suppose  one  must  admit  that.  I  shall 
be  glad  on  account  of  Constance,  and  sorry  for  the 
girl." 

"Her  father  was  on  the  general's  staff,  and  I  be 
lieve  it  is  at  least  true  that  since  his  death  the  girl 
has  had  money  left  her." 

"A  strange  business,"  said  Mrs.  March.  "Good- 

by." 

Althea,  who  had  listened  eagerly,  was  delighted 
to  have,  at  last,  something  of  moment  to  say  to  Mrs. 
Trescot.  She  was  entirely  without  moral  sense  of 
the  right  or  wrong  of  Mrs.  Trescot's  ways,  but  dis 
tinctly  aware  of  that  lady's  useful  relation  to  Al 
thea  Le  Moine. 

Mrs.  Dudley  sat  down  with  those  who  remained, 


346  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

profusely  ready  to  discuss  this  matter,  and  to  pour 
out  all  she  knew,  with  surmises  in  regard  to  what 
she  did  not  know. 

When,  late  in  the  afternoon,  Althea  found  Mrs. 
Trescot  alone  on  the  back  porch,  that  lady  rose  to 
greet  her,  saying  rather  wearily: 

"Ah,  Miss  Althea,  sit  down.  Were  you  at  the 
meeting  ? ' ' 

"No;  I  am  not  allowed  to  be  present,  as  I  think 
would  be  fitting.  I  was  called  in  afterward,  and  I 
am  glad  I  was,  because  I  know  you  will  be  in 
terested.  ' ' 

Constance  thought  it  unlikely,  but  said  languidly : 
"Have  the  orphans  got  over  the  mumps,  or  refused 
hash?" 

"It  is  much  more  important,  Mrs.  Trescot,"  re 
plied  Althea,  with  a  clear  conviction  that  the  news 
would  reflectively  add  to  her  own  value. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"It  is  really  surprising — most  surprising." 

"Well,  go  on.    What  is  it?" 

"You  will  be  interested." 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Constance,  irritably. 
"Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  say  what  you 
mean  ?  ' ' 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Althea,  with  a  little  start,  "I 
beg  pardon,  Mrs.  Trescot." 

"Well,  will  you  never  go  on?" 

"Mr.  Greyhurst  is  going  to  marry  Miss  Jeanette 
Wilson.  She  is  a  blonde.  She  lives  in  San  Fran 
cisco—no,  I  mean  Sacramento.  She  is  rich.  She 
is  very  small.  I  thought  you  would  wish  to  know. 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  347 

She   lives   with   an   old   aunt,   Miss   Ruth   Wilson. 
Is  n't  it  horrid?" 

As  Miss  Althea  delivered  herself  of  this  news, 
in  her  usual  inconsecutive  manner,  Constance  sat- 
up,  and,  grasping  the  arms  of  her  chair,  listened. 
Her  languor  was  gone. 

"Now  be  careful,  Miss  Althea,"  she  said.  "Is 
this  true  ?  Is  there  any  doubt  about  it  ? " 

Althea  repeated  her  tale  with  slight  variations. 
"Yes,  Colonel  Dudley  has  had  a  letter.  It  was  an 
old  affair.  Miss  Wilson  had  once  been  in  St.  Ann, 
or  near  it;  but  Miss  Wilson  is  very  strict  in  her 
views,  and  would  not  listen  to  him  while  Mrs.  Grey- 
hurst  was  alive.  You  know  she  was  divorced." 

Mrs.  Trescot  rose.  "  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  ask 
you  to  stay.  I  am  not  very  well."  In  fact,  she  was 
greatly  agitated,  and  was  eager  to  be  alone. 

"Yes;  it  is  quite  upsetting,"  said  Althea.  "One 
never  knows  what  will  happen." 

"Thank  you  for  coming,  and  oblige  me  by  saying 
nothing  to  any  one  of  your  having  told  me.  Pray 
pardon  my  abruptness." 

"Certainly.     You  do  look  upset." 

"Yes;  I  am  not  quite  myself  to-day.  Come  soon 
again,  or  if  you  hear  more  let  me  know  at  once." 

Althea  had  made  mischief.  She  was  morally  as 
innocent  as  the  slow-match  between  the  engineer's 
hand  and  the  gunpowder  in  the  mine. 

Constance  returned  to  the  porch  and  walked 
slowly  to  and  fro. 

Greyhurst  had  left  St.  Ann  a  half-ruined  man, 
and,  she  was  sure,  an  unhappy  man.  She  had 


348  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

had  in  mind  a  dozen  schemes  to  be  worked  out  on 
his  return— some  utterly  vain,  some  grave  enough. 
She  had  heard  that  his  house  was  mortgaged,  and 
the  interest  in  arrears.  What  if  she  bought  the 
mortgage?  She  had  been,  however,  lavishly  waste 
ful,  and  to  do  that  she  must  trench  on  her  capital. 
Now  he  was  about  to  escape,  and,  with  a  new  hope 
in  life,  to  find  love,  and  the  power  of  flight,  or  the 
means  of  resistance  money  would  give. 

As  usual,  and  more  and  more  of  late,  too  intense 
thought  brought  on  emotion.  To  sit  still  and  see  this 
murderer  unpunished  and  perhaps  happy,  able  to 
live  on  and  forget,  would,  she  felt,  be  unendurable. 
Oh,  rather  should  he  die!  and  she  laughed  a  laugh 
that  startled  her  as  though  it  were  a  ghost  of  mirth. 
She  walked  faster  up  and  down  the  porch,  thinking 
of  what  she  could  do,  until  of  a  sudden,  realizing 
the  completeness  of  her  defeat,  she  stood  still,  star 
ing  at  the  distant  river.  Suddenly,  as  she  sat  down, 
she  saw  with  vividness  the  man  with  the  revolver, 
the  little  haze  of  smoke  rising  as  he  stood,  the  dead 
man,  the  dearly  loved  face,  the  crowd.  She  caught 
her  head  in  her  hands,  clutching  it  in  the  agony  of  a 
hysterical  vision  which  reproduced  the  anguish  of 
life's  darkest  hour.  Her  hair  fell  about  her,  over 
the  black  dress.  She  staggered  to  her  feet,  and, 
swaying,  dropped  on  the  floor. 

An  hour  later,  Susan,  glowing  and  happy,  came 
home  from  a  ride  with  Reginald  Kent.  She  gathered 
her  skirts  and  went  in,  asking  for  Constance.  Not 
finding  her  in  the  house,  she  went  out  to  the  porch, 
and  saw  Constance  lying,  with  clenched  hands, 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  349 

rigid  and  motionless.  She  understood  at  once  that 
it  was  a  return  of  the  former  trouble,  and,  being  a 
woman  of  sense  and  resource,  knew  what  was  to  be 
done. 

When  Dr.  Eskridge  arrived,  he  found  Constance 
on  a  lounge  in  the  parlor,  already  better  and  asking 
what  was  the  matter.  Had  she  fainted?  There 
were  slight  returns  of  rigidity  and  forgetfulness, 
but  before  morning  she  was  herself.  A  few  days  of 
rest  would  be  needed.  She  assented  willingly,  re 
lieved  that  Susan  asked  no  questions. 

In  a  day  or  two  she  recognized  that  she  had  been 
strangely  eased  by  this  riotous  outbreak  of  emotion, 
but  felt  as  if  bruised  in  every  inch  of  her  strong 
body. 

"And  now,  Miss  Susan,"  said  the  doctor,  after 
his  second  visit,  as  they  went  down-stairs,  "what 
caused  this  trouble?" 

"Wait  a  little,  doctor.  She  has  the  hearing  of  an 
animal." 

He  was  silent  until  they  had  entered  the  parlor 
and  she  had  closed  the  door. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "we  can  talk  unheard.  Con 
stance  hears  everything.  You  asked  what  caused  it. 
I  do  not  know.  Nothing  unusual  happened.  Miss 
Althea  Le  Moine  was  here,  but  she  comes  very  often 
to  see  Constance— a  furtive,  childish,  dried-up  wo 
man,  one  of  the  helpless  wrecks  of  the  war.  Con 
stance  is  good  to  her,  I  fancy." 

The  doctor  asked  questions  concerning  Mrs.  Tres- 
cot,  few  of  which  Susan  was  able  to  answer.  Sorry 
for  both  sisters,  he  went  away  in  doubt,  as  he  had 


350  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

gone  so  often  from  among  the  griefs  and  perplex 
ities  of  many  in  his  long  life  of  honest  service. 

When,  in  the  afternoon,  Mrs.  Averill  called,  Susan 
heard  of  the  gossip  at  the  home,  and  began  to  sus 
pect  that  it  was  Miss  Le  Moine's  visit  which  had 
been  the  cause  of  Constance's  attack.  She  disliked 
to  question  Miss  Le  Moine,  and  felt  herself  power 
less.  It  was  unadvisa.ble  to  reopen  the  subject  with 
her  sister.  She  would  learn  nothing.  Kent  was  as 
little  able  to  advise  her. 

Meanwhile  the  days  went  by  and  Constance  was 
up  and  about  the  house.  She  was  evidently  better, 
and  submitted  to  every  order  with  patience,  longing 
to  regain  her  full  strength  and  decide  upon  what  she 
should  do. 

At  the  close  of  a  fortnight,  she  mailed  the  follow 
ing  letter  to  Miss  Jeanette  Wilson,  in  the  care  of 
Miss  Ruth  Wilson,  Sacramento,  California: 

"ST.  ANN,  WEST  STREET,  March  12,  1872. 
"DEAR  Miss  WILSON: 

"I  have  learned  of  late  that  you  are  engaged  to 
be  married  to  Mr.  Greyhurst  of  St.  Ann.  If  it  be 
not  true,  I  simply  offer  my  apologies  for  this  letter. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  it  be  true,  I  should  be  want 
ing  in  my  sense  of  duty  if  I  failed  to  do  what  prob 
ably  no  one  else  will  do.  Believe  me,  I  have  no 
motive  except  that,  as  a  woman  who  has  greatly 
suffered  by  this  man's  act,  I  cannot  leave  another 
woman  ignorant. 

"Mr.  Greyhurst 's  first  marriage  resulted  in  a 
divorce  caused  by  his  ill-temper.  On  the  ninth  of 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  351 

October,  1870,  he  murdered  my  husband,  shooting 
down  in  cold  blood  an  unarmed  man,  partly  crippled, 
and  who,  at  the  moment,  was  going  forward  to  meet 
him  with  a  message  of  peace  and  an  offer  to  settle 
generously  the  case  Mr.  Greyhurst  had  just  lost. 

' '  If,  for  your  misfortune,  you  doubt  my  statement, 
General  Averill  will,  I  am  sure,  indorse  all  I  have 
said.  Probably  Mr.  Greyhurst  has  told  you  his  own 
story.  Whether  you  can  trust  it  or  not  you  must 
decide.  His  only  excuse  can  be  that  what  he  did 
was  an  act  of  sudden  anger,  the  fatal  result  of  a 
life  without  moral  law  and  without  religion. 

"I  leave  you  to  imagine  what  prospect  of  happi 
ness  a  union  with  such  a  man  may  offer.  I  trust, 
at  least,  to  hear  that  you  have  received  this  letter. 
To  write  it  has  cost  me  dear,  and  has  renewed  for  me 
a  scene  I  saw  and  can  never  forget. 
"Very  truly  yours, 

"CONSTANCE  TRESCOT. 

"Miss  JEANETTE  WILSON." 

Having  shot  her  arrow,  Constance  waited  with  the 
patience  of  a  hunting  animal.  The  letter  thus  sent 
was  not  such  as  she  could  have  written  in  her  earlier 
months  of  desire  for  retributive  punishment.  Cer 
tainly  her  motives  in  writing  it  were  untruly  stated, 
and  she  had  once  been  truthful.  The  cunning  it 
displayed  was  a  sad  illustration  of  the  failure  of 
a  character  which,  in  the  presence  of  one  consuming 
purpose,  had  ceased  to  be  influenced  by  anything 
else. 

What  pain  she  was  to  inflict  on  this  unseen  wo- 


352  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

man  gave  her  no  concern.  Of  Susan's  opinion  she 
did  think  at  times;  but  Susan  would  never  know  of 
this  letter,  nor,  at  this  time,  would  it  in  the  least 
degree  have  affected  her  own  course  of  action.  Her 
power  of  self -trial  and  self-condemnation  was  lost. 
If  she  had  any  doubts  she  put  them  aside,  and,  as 
usual  with  her,  was  set  at  ease  for  the  time  by  a 
decisive  act. 

Meanwhile,  her  letter  crossed  the  continent  and 
passed  the  train  in  which  Greyhurst  returned  to  St. 
Ann.  He  lingered  a  day  to  see  Colonel  Dudley,  and 
then  went  East  to  meet  certain  bankers  in  New  York, 
whom  he  hoped  to  interest  in  the  mines,  and  who 
were  to  advance  money  to  open  and  develop  them. 
His  fee  was  to  be  a  share  in  the  property,  and  he 
looked  forward  with  confidence  to  such  a  favorable 
result  of  his  negotiations  as  would  in  some  degree 
release  him  from  his  increasing  embarrassments. 

He  felt  that  he  had  been  terribly  punished  for 
an  act  of  rashness  and  passion ;  but  now,  with  gain 
of  health  and  freedom  from  material  reminders  of 
guilt,  he  began  to  feel  a  return  of  belief  in  a  more 
happy  future.  Time  has  for  crime,  as  well  as  for 
grief,  its  alleviating  helpfulness,  and  even  the  sharp 
est  remorse  may  be  dulled  as  the  years  go  by. 

He  honestly  loved  the  woman,  who  had  long  re 
fused  to  consider  his  suit.  "When  again  he  saw  her 
in  Sacramento,  she  was  shocked  and  pitiful  as  she 
observed  how  greatly  he  was  altered.  She  had  heard 
of  the  death  of  Trescot,  and  he  was  wise  enough  to 
face  the  matter.  He  told  her  of  his  own  life,  of  his 
boyhood,  of  the  temptations  and  rude  existence  in 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  353 

the  mining-camps  of  the  West.  He  described,  with 
every  sign  of  regret,  his  sudden  meeting  with  Tres- 
cot,  and  told  of  his  belief  that  he  was  about  to  use 
a  weapon,  and  of  how  the  man  who  had  insulted  him 
came  forward  with  a  smile  of  triumph,  and  then  of 
his  own  quick  anger,  and  of  the  fatal  consequence. 
He  was  profoundly  moved,  and  she  hardly  less  so. 

She  was,  and  had  long  been,  on  the  border-line 
of  that  complete  abandonment  to  love  which,  once 
it  is  passed,  excuses  all  things,  and  has  cost  women 
so  much  unhappiness.  Being,  however,  a  person  of 
great  good  sense,  of  ready  decision,  and  possessed 
of  that  quick  apprehension  which  is  so  mysterious 
to  the  male  mind,  his  statement  checked  her.  Some 
thing  in  it— and  she  acknowledged  the  feeling  with 
pain— did  not  ring  true.  She  refused  finally  to 
commit  herself ;  he  must  wait.  ^  She  gave  no  distinct 
reason,  except  that  she  was  not  sure  of  herself ;  and 
he  went  away,  not  altogether  dissatisfied.  She  had 
been  so  tender,  so  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  say  yes ; 
so  full  of  what,  in  fact,  was  yearning  pity  afraid 
to  trust  itself  to  speech. 

When  he  had  gone  she  would  have  had  him  back. 
Had  he  returned,  she  would  have  had  no  more  to 
say  than  she  had  already  said.  She  approved  her 
own  decision,  but  knew  it  to  be  insecure;  and, 
fully  comprehending  the  gravity  of  the  question, 
felt  that,  for  her  sake  and  his,  she  ought  not  to 
leave  him  long  without  a  definite  answer.  But  how 
could  she  become  more  reasonably  sure  of  what  this 
man  was?  How  could  she  be  certain  that  he  had 
told  her  the  facts  as  they  had  appeared  to  less  par- 

23 


354  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

tial  witnesses?  She  was  a  woman  in  her  twenty- 
fifth  year,  and  more  than  usually  mature.  Her  re 
ligious  convictions  were  positive,  her  beliefs  distinct. 
It  was  not  possible  for  her  to  fail  to  consider  so 
grave  a  matter  apart  from  the  views  which  had  been 
influential  in  a  life  not  free  from  trials.  She  knew 
that  her  lover  was,  by  habit,  indifferent  to  what  she 
regarded  as  of  the  utmost  moment.  She  smiled 
sadly  as  she  thought  of  St.  Paul's  advice,  and  felt 
that  under  ordinary  circumstances  she  would  have 
been  free  to  yield,  trusting  with  affectionate  hope 
to  what  influence  time  and  love  might  have.  But 
this  other  matter  made  her  pause ;  no,  that  must  be 
seen  by  her  as  others  saw  it— those  in  whose  hearts 
there  was  no  constant  advocate  willing  or  wishing 
to  believe  John  Greyhurst  innocent  and  the  sad  vic 
tim  of  circumstances. 

Resolute  at  last  to  put  an  end  to  her  doubt,  and 
accustomed  for  years  to  independence  of  action,  she 
decided  to  go  to  St.  Ann,  and,  in  Greyhurst 's  ab 
sence,  to  see  the  Averills,  whom  she  had  known  as 
a  girl,  and  who  had  been  friends  of  her  dead  fa 
ther.  She  cherished  a  tender  hope  that  here  would 
be  the  friends  who  would  incline  to  think  the  best 
possible  of  Greyhurst.  She  justified  that  night  the 
Eastern  proverb,  "In  the  Inn  of  Decision  men  sleep 
well, ' '  and  awakened  self-assured  that  she  was  right. 
She  wrote  to  her  cousins  at  Trois  lies,  on  the  river 
below  St.  Ann,  that  she  would  make  them  a  short 
visit. 

The  night  before  her  departure  she  received  Mrs. 
Trescot's  letter.  Her  future  darkened  as  she  ran 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  355 

over  the  pages.  She  had  never  before  realized  that 
which,  when  thus  told  by  an  agonized  eye-witness, 
dismissed  for  her  at  once  the  merciful  vagueness  of 
a  thing  unseen.  Once  more  considering  the  letter, 
she  read  between  the  lines,  as  she  had  read  between 
the  words  her  lover  had  used.  It  was  natural  that 
an  unfortunate  woman  should  overstate  the  guilt 
of  the  man  who  had  cost  her  so  dear.  Again  she 
doubted,  again  wondered  where  the  truth  lay,  and 
found  new  distress  in  the  thought  of  the  young  wife 
alone  with  her  grief.  Had  Greyhurst  ever  thought, 
after  that  day  of  death,  of  the  woman  alone  with  the 
sorrow  he  had  created?  He  had  never  mentioned 
her. 


VIII 

I  ATE  in  the  morning  Miss  Wilson  ar 
rived  at  her  cousin's  home  at  Trois 
lies,  and,  anxiously  intent  on  her  pur 
pose,  took  the  afternoon  ferry-boat  to 
St.  Ann. 

She  had  been  in  the  town  just  after  the  war,  and 
when  it  was  half  in  ruins.  When  about  to  ask  the 
way  to  General  Averill's  she  met  Mrs.  Dudley. 
"Why,  this  must  be  Jeanette  Wilson,"  said  that 
lady.  ' '  So  glad  to  see  you  !  How  well  you  look,  and 
how  young !"  It  was  true.  The  blonde  little  woman 
still  kept  the  childlike  look  which  is  the  peculiar 
privilege  of  her  type. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Dudley.  May  I  ask  you  to  tell 
me  where  the  Averills  live  ? ' ' 

"Up  on  the  hill.    And  so  you  are  engaged  to  be 
married  to  Mr.  Greyhurst." 
"No.    I  am  not." 

"Bless  me,  my  dear!  I  could  not  have  misunder 
stood  my  husband." 

"I  fear  that  you  have  done  so.  Mr.  Greyhurst,  I 
am  quite  sure,  never  could  have  said  that." 

Mrs.  Dudley  would  have  been  shocked  had  any 
one  accused  her  of  intention  to  deceive,  but  she  was 

356 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  357 

so  habitually  inaccurate  as  to  have  obtained  for  her 
self  the  credit  of  want  of  veracity.  Like  most  in 
accurate  persons,  she  was  exceedingly  positive. 

When,  therefore,  Miss  Wilson  denied  her  engage 
ment,  Mrs.  Dudley  returned:  "Oh,  that  is  always 
the  way  with  young  women.  I  suppose  it  amounts  to 
the  same  thing." 

"Hardly;  and  I  must  ask  that  you  do  me  the 
favor  to  contradict  any  rumor  to  that  effect.  I  am 
not  engaged." 

"Certainly;  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Dudley,  not  at 
all  convinced.  "What  stay  do  you  make  in  St. 
Ann?" 

"Only  a  day  or  two." 

"Indeed!" 

"Yes,  that  is  all."  Then  she  paused,  and  re 
solved  of  a  sudden,  and  not  very  wisely,  to  take  Mrs. 
Dudley  into  her  confidence. 

"Would  you  mind  my  asking  you  to  tell  me 
something  ? ' ' 

"Certainly  not.  What  is  it?"  She  was  at  once 
eager  and  curious.  "Come  in,  my  dear.  It  is  only 
a  step  to  our  house.  Ah,  here  we  are."  When  they 
were  seated  she  said  promptly: 

"And  now,  my  dear,  what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"You  can  help  me,  I  hope.  Mr.  Greyhurst  is,  I 
believe,  a  friend  of  Colonel  Dudley." 

"My  husband  has  charge  of  his  affairs  while  he 
is  absent,  but  I  could  hardly  say  they  were  friends. 
You  see,  Miss  Wilson,  in  St.  Ann  they—  '  and  she 
checked  herself. 

"They  what?"  returned  Miss  Wilson,  too  greatly 


358  CONSTANCE  TEESCOT 

concerned  to  accept  Mrs.  Dudley's  prudent  arrest 
of  speech. 

"Oh,  nothing;  it  is  of  no  moment." 

"Mrs.  Dudley,  Mr.  Greyhurst  had  a  very  serious 
trouble  more  than  a  year  ago.  I  have  urgent  rea 
sons  to  know  all  about  it.  May  I  ask  you  frankly 
to  tell  me  the  whole  story?" 

For  once,  Mrs.  Dudley  was  cautious.  What  she 
might  say  would  possibly  go  back  to  Greyhurst,  and 
as  he  had  never  quite  lost  the  evil  reputation  of 
being  quarrelsome,  the  colonel  might,  as  had  once 
happened,  be  asked  to  answer  for  his  wife's  words. 

She  replied:  "Oh,  that  is  an  old  story,  and  we 
never  talk  about  such  things,  Miss  Wilson. ' ' 

"I  know,  I  know;  but  oh,  Mrs.  Dudley,  I  am  in 
great  trouble.  I  hoped  that,  as  an  older  woman,  and 
without  my  saying  more,  you  would  help  me.  I 
should  consider  whatever  you  told  me  as  absolutely 
confidential." 

Mrs.  Dudley  had  no  firm  trust  in  the  possibility 
of  any  woman  preserving  under  temptation  the  vir 
tue  of  entire  silence.  Moreover,  she  was  becoming 
alarmed  at  a  situation  too  perilous  to  permit  of  the 
luxury  of  gossip.  She  said  therefore:  "Help  you, 
my  dear?  Indeed,  I  would  if  I  could;  but  really  I 
cannot. ' ' 

"I  fear,  Mrs.  Dudley,  that  when  you  say  you  do 
not  like  to  tell  me,  it  means  that  you  will  not  tell  me. 
If  that  is  so,  I—" 

Mrs.  Dudley,  interrupting,  said,  "Oh,  yes,  if  you 
like  to  put  it  that  way."  To  pour  out  the  whole 
sad  story  was  her  dear  desire. 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  359 

" Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Wilson,  seeing  how  vain 
was  her  quest.  "Thank  you.  I  am  at  least  your 
debtor  for  being  frank  with  me.  I  think  I  under 
stand." 

Mrs.  Dudley  was  not  so  clear,  and  said  awk 
wardly  :  ' '  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  I  thought  you  would. 
What  a  lovely  gown!" 

Poor  Miss  Wilson,  sad  as  was  her  case,  came  near 
to  smiling. 

It  was  a  crude  method  of  dismissing  the  subject, 
but  it  answered  the  purpose;  and  seeing  that  she 
had  failed,  and  urging  her  hostess  no  further,  the 
younger  woman  accepted  the  change  of  conversa 
tional  base.  She  skilfully  put  aside  some  rather  in 
trusive  questions,  and  finally  went  away  unsatisfied, 
and  leaving  Mrs.  Dudley  eagerly  desirous  to  know 
more. 

Jeanette  was  fortunate  in  finding  Mrs.  Averill  at 
home,  and  was  grateful  for  the  cordial  welcome  she 
received,  as  that  lady  at  once  remembered  her,  and 
that  her  visitor's  father  had  served  during  the  war 
on  the  general's  brigade  staff. 

Seeing  the  miniatures  of  the  dead  sons  on  the 
table,  Jeanette  admired  them,  and  asked  how  Mrs. 
Averill  came  to  be  so  fortunate  as  to  possess  them. 
Mrs.  Averill,  suddenly  recalling  the  fact  that  Miss 
Wilson  was  said  to  be  engaged  to  Greyhurst,  hoped 
that  she  would  be  content  with  the  answer  that  they 
were  done  in  Italy,  the  kind  gift  of  friends.  Un 
luckily,  Miss  Wilson  turned  over  the  one  she  held, 
and  saw  on  the  back,  "From  Susan  Hood  and  Con 
stance  Trescot." 


360  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

She  laid  it  down  and,  looking  up,  said:  "Mrs. 
Trescot  is  a  friend  of  yours  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  she  is  my  friend;  and  her  sister,  too." 

Miss  Wilson,  somewhat  embarrassed,  said:  "I 
never  knew  them.  They  came  to  St.  Ann  long  after 
my  last  visit" ;  and  after  a  brief  pause  added :  "And 
—and  he  was  killed— I  mean  Mr.  Trescot." 

Mrs.  Averill  saw  her  disturbed  face.  Leaning  for 
ward,  she  took  her  hand  and  said  in  her  low,  sweet 
voice:  "Let  us  talk  of  something  else,  my  dear. 
That  is  a  matter  too  sad  to  discuss.  He,  too,  was 
our  friend." 

"Oh,  no,  no;  I  came  to  talk  of— of  this:  but  it  is 
hard.  You  won't  mind,  will  you ?  You  see,  I  must ; 
I  have  to." 

Mrs.  Averill  knew  too  well  what  was  in  the 
younger  woman's  mind. 

"Don't  be  worried,  my  dear.  What  is  it?  What 
can  I  do  for  you?" 

"I  do  not  know.  I  am  in  trouble.  Mrs.  Dudley 
tells  me  that  I  am  said  to  be  engaged  to  Mr.  Grey- 
hurst,  and  I  am  not ;  I  may  never  be.  Oh,  dear  Mrs. 
Averill,  I  am  in  deep  waters.  I  care  for  him,— oh, 
very  much,— but  we  are  not  engaged.  I  have  had 
in  my  life  much  sorrow,  and  I  cannot  now  think  of 
marrying  him  without  knowing  all  of  that  awful 
story.  I  came  here  to  know.  He  has  given  me  his 
own  account  of  it ;  but  it  is  natural  he  should  make 
the  best  of  it ;  and,  oh,  won 't  you,  dear  Mrs.  Averill 
—won't  you  help  me?  Won't  you  tell  me  all  about 
what  you  and  General  Averill  think  should  guide 
me?  I  have  no  one  to  turn  to— no  one.  I  want 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  361 

some  one  who  knows  to  tell  me— plainly— all  about 
it." 

Mrs.  Averill  knew  that  all  social  relations  be 
tween  Greyhurst  and  her  husband  had  ceased  from 
the  time  of  Trescot's  death.  However  much  she 
pitied  the  young  woman  who  thus  appealed  to  her, 
she  was  reasonably  unwilling  to  be  frank.  She  hesi 
tated  just  long  enough  for  Miss  Wilson  to  note  the 
tardiness  of  reply  and  to  feel  what  it  implied.  Mrs. 
Averill  usually  spoke  with  ease  and  readiness;  now 
she  said  slowly,  with  care  as  to  her  words: 

"I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  cannot— I  do  not  feel 
quite  free  to  answer  you.  The  general  does  not  now 
know  Mr.  Greyhurst.  They  do  not  speak.  In  fact, 
I  would  rather  not  discuss  this  subject.  I  think  the 
general  will  also  be  unwilling." 

It  is  a  little  to  be  feared  that  she  knew  with  what 
entire  unreserve  her  husband  would  have  told  all  he 
knew  and  what  he  thought  of  Greyhurst. 

"I  see,  I  understand,"  said  the  blonde  little  lady. 
"You  must  pardon  me."  The  unusual  caution  of 
one  older  woman,  and  the  obvious  indisposition  of 
a  far  different  one,  told  her  almost  as  much  of  what 
she  wished  and  yet  feared  to  know  as  if  they  had 
been  rashly  outspoken. 

Mrs.  Averill  said:  "There  is,  my  dear,  nothing  to 
pardon.  I  am  honestly  sorry  to  be  unable  to  help 
you,  and  I  think  that  you  must  see  why  I  cannot." 

"Yes.  Thank  you.  I  will  not  trouble  you  any 
further;  but,  somehow,  I  must  know.  Will  you  be 
so  kind  as  to  read  this  letter?" 

She    opened    the    envelop    and    laid    Mrs.    Tres- 


362  CONSTANCE  TEE8COT 

cot's  letter  on  Mrs.  Averill's  lap,  who  said  inno 
cently  : 

"Of  course,  my  dear;  what  is  it?"  She  put  on 
her  glasses,  recognized  the  handwriting  at  once,  and 
with  surprise  and  pain  read  the  letter.  She  was 
shocked  and  sorry.  "That  is  very  terrible,  my  dear 
child ;  how  could  she  have  done  it— or  done  it  as  she 
has?" 

' '  If  what  she  says  be  true,  Mrs.  Averill,  and  I  were 
in  her  place,  I  should  have  done  it.  I  will  ask  but 
one  more  question— a  harmless  one.  Was  Mr.  Tres- 
cot  a  man  to— to  provoke  or  grossly  insult  another?" 

"No,  no;  he  was  not." 

"What  kind  of  man  was  he?" 

"He  was  all  that  a  man  ought  to  be— a  gentle 
man  to  the  core,  and  in  no  way  to  blame ;  and  now, 
Miss  Wilson,  you  must  not  ask  me  any  more  ques 
tions.  I  do  not  feel  free  to  reply.  I  wish  I  could 
help  you,  but  I  cannot;  nor  can  I  tell  you  who  will 
be  willing  to  do  so.  I  beg  that  you  will  not  embar 
rass  my  husband  by  asking  him." 

"I  will  not.  You  have  been  most  kind  to  me, 
and  I  thank  you ;  but  some  one  must  help  me.  May 
I  come  again?  I  promise  not  to  speak  of  this— 
this  subject." 

The  old  lady  rose.  "You  will  always  be  welcome 
—always.  And  I  do  trust  that  God  may  guide  you 
in  the  right  way." 

She  went  with  her  to  the  hall  door,  saying :  '  *  The 
general  will  be  glad  to  hear  of  you,  and  I  know  he 
will  like  to  talk  with  you  about  your  father." 

Mrs.  Averill  went  back  to  her  knitting,  and  re- 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  363 

fleeted  with  womanly  compassion  upon  the  strength 
and  maturity  of  the  character  which  could  thus  reso 
lutely  determine  the  fullness  of  love  impossible  with 
out  complete  trust  and  entire  respect. 

Miss  Wilson  was,  in  fact,  just  what  Mrs.  Averill 
supposed  her  to  be.  She  had  longed  to  say  to  the  girl, 
"Do  not  marry  that  man."  Even  on  her  door-step, 
as  they  parted,  she  had  felt  that  she  had  not  done  her 
duty  to  a  soul  in  deep  distress. 

Miss  Wilson  paused  a  moment  in  thought  outside 
of  the  gate,  and  then  returning,  found  Mrs.  Averill 
in  the  parlor  and  asked  her  where  she  could  find 
Mr.  Kent.  Mrs.  Averill  replied,  "At  the  church, 
my  dear,"  and  gave  her  the  needed  directions,  add 
ing  that  he  would  probably  be  in  the  vestry-room, 
which  he  used  as  a  study,  or  possibly  in  the  library- 
room  of  the  parish  Sunday-school.  Could  she  desire 
to  ask  his  advice?  That  might  be  the  case.  He 
would,  she  thought,  be  prudent. 

The  clergyman  had  occurred  to  the  young  woman 
as  for  her  a  natural  and  final  resort.  Her  friends 
had  written  of  him  in  their  letters  as  a  man  of  high 
character  and  much  liked.  Where  else  could  she  go  ? 
At  all  events,  she  would  tell  her  story  and  ask  his  aid. 

When  she  rang  at  the  library  door,  it  was  opened 
by  Miss  Hood,  who  had  been  busy  with  a  case  of 
new  books  she  had  just  received.  She  went  with  her 
to  the  vestry,  saying,  as  Kent  opened  the  door, 
"Here  is  a  lady  to  see  you,  Mr.  Kent." 

As  he  made  her  welcome  and  she  sat  down,  she 
was  for  a  moment  disappointed,  having,  for  no  rea 
son,  expected  to  see  a  man  of  full  middle  age.  The 


364  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

pleasant,  smiling  face,  and  something,  she  knew  not 
what,  in  his  eyes,  reassured  her.  When  she  apolo 
gized  for  troubling  him,  and  he  said,  ''No,  I  am  not 
busy;  I  am  much  at  your  service,"  she  felt  at  once 
that  here,  at  least,  she  would  find  a  sympathetic 
hearing,  and  making  no  further  excuses,  said  sim- 


"I  am  a  woman,  Mr.  Kent,  in  great  perplexity. 
I  am  Jeanette  Wilson.  I  may  add  that  I  am  an 
Episcopalian.  For  some  time  I  was  in  more  than 
doubt  as  to  whether  I  ought  to  rnarry  a  gentleman. 
It  is  about  him  I  wish  to  speak.  While  his  wife 
lived—  you  know,  he  had  been  divorced—  I  could  not 
even  consider  the  matter.  Now  that  she  has  died, 
he  has  again  asked  me  to  share  his  life." 

Kent  listened  with  interested  attention.     She  was 
young,  pretty,  and  evidently  under  the  influence  of 
deep  emotion.    After  a  moment  of  pause  she  added: 
"And  now  again  I  hesitate." 
"May  I,  without  indiscretion,  ask  his  name,  or 
can  I  advise  or  aid  your  decision  without  that?" 

"You  may  know  him.     He  is  Mr.   John   Grey- 
hurst" 

Kent  was  more  than  surprised. 
"Yes;  I  met  him  once  in  Colonel  Dudley's  office. 
I  can  hardly  say  I  know  him,  in  any  fuller  personal 
sense.     But,  pray,  go  on,  and  be  sure  that  I  shall 
be  most  glad  to  give  you  any  help  in  my  power." 
"I  was  sure  you  would.    I  am  in  the  utmost  per 
plexity.     I  know  much  of  his  life.    He  has  told  me 
of  the—  the  death  of  Mr.  Trescot.     I  want  to  be 
lieve  his  account  of  it;  but  oh,  Mr.  Kent,  at  the 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  365 

best  it  is  terrible,  and  I  fear  to  trust  his  statement. 
If  lie  has  not  been  entirely  truthful,  I  must  know 
it.  With  so  much  at  stake,  it  is— it  must  be— nat 
ural  for  a  man  to  find  excuses  for  so  awful  a  sin. 
I  want  to  help  him  to  a  better  life.  I  want  to  be 
able  to  marry  him.  Before  I  let  myself  go,— and 
I  could, — I  am  resolved  to  learn  from  some  one  the 
whole  truth.  If  he  had  repented  in  your  sense  and 
mine,  I  should  believe  him;  he  has  not.  He  regrets 
and  has  suffered,  that  is  sure;  but  oh,  Mr.  Kent, 
that  is  so  little— so  very  little.  I  have  been  to  two 
women  to  ask— to  know  more  of  Mr.  Greyhurst,  to 
hear  the  whole  story  of  this  dreadful  thing.  I  have 
come  from  Sacramento  to  learn,  and  now  no  one  will 
tell  me.  If  they  are  afraid  of  him,  that  is  bad ;  but 
at  all  events  I  must  know.  I  do  not  want  advice ;  I 
want  only  full  knowledge;  then  I  shall  decide  for 
myself." 

"Is  this  all,  Miss  Wilson?" 

"No;  while  I  was  still  in  doubt,  after  Mr.  Grey- 
hurst  left  California,  I  received  a  letter  from  Mrs. 
Trescot.  I  can  put  myself  in  her  place,  different  as 
our  views  must  be.  I  might,  God  help  me  !  have  done 
the  same.  Have  the  kindness  to  read  it,  sir.  If  she 
tells  the  exact  truth,  he  has  not  told  all  of  it,  and 
it  had  been  more  wise  to  have  wholly  trusted  a  wo 
man's  love  and  pity." 

That  was  Kent's  opinion  as  he  considered  the 
childlike  sweetness  of  the  face  below  the  blonde  hair. 
Without  a  word  he  took  the  letter.  He  frowned, 
annoyed  and  displeased,  as  he  read ;  and  folding  the 
sheet,  returned  it. 


366  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"You  are  right,"  he  said  gravely.  "As  a  clergy 
man,  and  also  as  a  man,  you  have  a  right  to  all  I 
know. ' ' 

"  If , "  she  said,  ' '  it  will  make  trouble  for  you  with 
Mr.  Greyhurst—  " 

He  interrupted  her  with,  "That  is  no  part  of  the 
matter.  I  shall  write  to  him  and  tell  him  what  I 
shall  now  say ;  and  I  may  say  to  you  that  I  know  the 
whole  of  this  sad  story,  although  at  the  time  it 
happened  I  was  not  in  St.  Ann. ' ' 

"Is  it  necessary  that  you  do  this— I  mean  tell 
him?" 

"Yes,  for  me  it  is.  Mr.  Greyhurst  was  angry  at 
the  loss  of  his  case.  There  were  some  sharp  pas 
sages  between  Trescot  and  himself,  such  as  occur  in 
trials.  Of  these  I  know  least.  As  I  have  said,  I  was 
not  in  St.  Ann  at  that  time.  I  believe  that  he  said 
things  of  Mr.  Trescot— and  to  his  wife,  whom  he 
called  as  a  witness— things  no  man  should  have  said. 
I  do  not  wish  to  overstate  the  matter.  Mr.  Grey 
hurst  was  said  to  be  in  debt.  This  suit  was  of  great 
moment  to  him,  and  I  suppose  that  the  verdict  was 
a  serious  disappointment.  When  he  came  out  of  the 
court,  Mrs.  Trescot  was  near  by,  waiting  for  her 
husband. ' ' 

"Oh,  sir,  did  he  see  her?"  asked  Miss  Wilson, 
anxiously. 

"I  do  not  know.  He  saw  Mr.  Trescot  coming  to 
meet  him,  and,  without  warning,  killed  him." 

"But  he  was  drawing  a  pistol,"  she  said  quickly. 

"No;  he  never  so  much  as  owned  a  pistol.  His 
right  arm  was  crippled  from  a  wound,  as  was  gen- 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  367 

erally  known  because  he  usually  rested  it  caught  in 
his  waistcoat.  As  he  approached  he  was  smiling. 
You  see,  he  was  pleased  to  be  able  to  be  generous." 

' '  My  God ! "  she  exclaimed.    ' '  Go  on ;  tell  me  all ! " 

''Yes;  he  had  just  received  a  telegram  authoriz 
ing  him  to  divide  the  land  in  dispute,  in  order  to 
treat  more  liberally  Mr.  Greyhurst 's  clients.  He 
raised  his  lame  arm  to  take  out  the  telegram  from 
his  pocket,  and  was,  as  is  known,  advancing  to 
make  the  offer.  He  had  it  in  his  hand  when  Mr. 
Greyhurst  fired." 

"Is  that  all?"  she  said  faintly. 

1  'No;  on  his  desk  was  found  a  letter  to  Mr.  Hood, 
stating  that  he  would  give  up  the  agency  unless  Mr. 
Hood,  the  owner,  would,  after  the  trial,  consent 
to  a  compromise  as  an  act  of  equitable  justice  to 
people  who  had  no  legal  claim.  Mr.  Hood's  sudden 
death  enabled  Miss  Hood,  the  sister  of  Mrs.  Trescot, 
to  give  Mr.  Trescot  full  authority  to  settle  the  mat 
ter.  Mrs.  Trescot  called  him  out  of  the  court  to  give 
him  the  telegram,  and  to  beg  him  at  once  to  offer 
Mr.  Greyhurst  the  adjustment  they  desired.  That 
is  all.  I  have  been  long,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that 
you  had  a  right  to  know  the  whole.  I  believe  that 
I  have  stated  it  correctly." 

"Then,"  she  said,  as  her  head  drooped,  "it  was 
murder,  and  without  shadow  of  excuse."  She  fell 
back,  appalled  at  her  verdict,  murmuring  again,  "It 
was  murder,  and  without  excuse." 

"Yes,  as  I  see  it,  it  was  murder;  whether  pre 
meditated,  or  the  sudden  outcome  of  anger  and  dis 
appointment,  God  alone  knows." 


368  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

"One  word  more,  Mr.  Kent.  There  had  been  ill 
feeling  between  them?  Sharp  words  had  passed. 
You  said  so.  Mr.  Greyhurst  believed  himself  to 
have  been  insulted." 

"Yes,  I  have  so  heard." 

"What  kind  of  man  was  Mr.  Trescot?  You  see," 
she  said,  eager  to  find  excuses,  "I  want  to  know  all 
— both  sides." 

"I  never  saw  him;  but  as  to  that  there  was  but 
one  opinion.  He  was  a  sweet-tempered,  kindly,  and 
most  honorable  gentleman,  a  servant  of  your  Mas 
ter  and  mine." 

"That  is  enough,  and  too  much.  God  pity  him 
and  me!" 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  standing  with  bowed 
head,  looking  down,  added:  "I  cannot  thank  you 
too  much.  You  have  done  me  the  greatest  service 
a  man  could  render  a  woman.  I  think  that  you 
ought  to  know  that  I  shall  never  marry  John  Grey- 
hurst.  I  meant  to  ask  your  advice,  but  now  I  do  not 
need  it.  The  way  of  my  duty  is  plain.  Good-by." 

She  let  fall  her  veil  and  went  out,  passing  Miss 
Hood,  who  was  still  busy  with  her  books. 

"I  shall  be  jealous,  Reginald,  if  you  are  so  long 
closeted  with  pretty  women." 

"Don't  begin  quite  so  soon,"  he  said,  "or  the  sup 
ply  of  jealousy  may  not  equal  the  demand.  Come 
and  walk  with  me;  I  have  had  a  rather  grim  half- 
hour." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  curious,  but  asked  no  ques 
tions. 


IX 


jRS.    TRESCOT    received    no    acknow- 
5  ledgment  of  the  receipt  of  her  letter, 
nor  had  the  unhappy  woman  to  whom 
it  was  sent  any  intention  of  answering 
it.     She   desired  never  again  to   hear 
of  the  writer. 

Making  such  excuses  as  were  possible  to  her  as 
tonished  friends,  Miss  Wilson  took  the  train  to  the 
North  on  the  day  after  her  visit  to  Mr.  Kent,  and 
thence  returned  to  Sacramento.  She  was  wise 
enough  to  avoid  a  meeting  with  Greyhurst. 

From  Chicago  she  wrote  to  Mr.  Kent  a  note  of 
renewed  thankfulness,  and  earnestly  asked  that  he 
would  not  feel  it  necessary  to  mention  to  Mr.  Grey- 
hurst  what  he,  Mr.  Kent,  had  told  her.  * '  I  am  most 
grateful  to  you,"  she  wrote,  "for  the  courage  of 
what  you  did  for  me,  a  stranger;  but  I  cannot  rest 
easy  under  the  idea  that,  in  his  anger  and  disap 
pointment,  a  man  as  passionate  may  again  do  some 
thing  as  rash  as  that  which  has  parted  us  forever. 
It  will  be  altogether  unnecessary  for  you  to  speak 
of  what  you  said  to  me,  because  Mrs.  Trescot's  let 
ter  will  suffice  to  explain  to  him  the  reasons  for  my 
decision.  It  is  an  unfeeling  letter,  but  it  will  so 
24  369 


370  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

justify  my  decision  as  to  relieve  you  from  need  to 
speak. " 

Her  request  had  no  effect  on  Kent's  intention. 
He  had  taken  on  himself  a  grave  responsibility,  and 
meant  to  abide  by  it.  He  had  neither  fear  of  un 
pleasant  consequences  nor  belief  that  they  would 
occur.  The  thought  that  Mrs.  Trescot's  letter  would 
reach  Greyhurst  made  him  far  more  uneasy.  He  re 
solved  to  speak  to  the  lawyer  on  his  return,  which 
took  place  two  days  later. 

Greyhurst  had  found  difficulty  in  satisfying  the 
bankers  on  whom  he  relied.  The  money-market  was 
unsettled,  and  men  were  indisposed  to  go  into  even 
the  most  promising  ventures.  He  was  advised  to 
wait,  to  return  in  a  month.  He  left  New  York  a 
much  disappointed  man,  and  went  home  to  meet 
conditions  which  he  knew  must  result  in  ruin. 

Thinking  sadly  of  his  affairs,  and  with  some  re 
lieving  hope  in  regard  to  Jeanette  Wilson,  whom  he 
very  honestly  loved  and  sincerely  respected,  he  left 
the  station  at  St.  Ann.  The  phantom  face  had  been 
seen  of  late  but  rarely,  and  had  lost  distinctness. 

On  his  way  he  called  to  see  Colonel  Dudley.  His 
wife  was  in  the  hall.  "Glad  to  see  you  back/'  she 
said.  "My  husband  is  out." 

' '  Tell  the  colonel  that  I  was  detained  in  New  York. 
I  will  call  to-night." 

"You  have  just  missed  Miss  Wilson." 

"Miss  Wilson!    Has  she  been  in  St.  Ann?" 

"Yes;  but  she  stayed  only  two  or  three  days. 
She  has  gone." 

"Did  you  see  her,  Mrs.  Dudley?" 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  371 

"Oh,  yes;  she  was  looking  very  pretty  and  very 
well.  We  had  a  little  talk.  I  hope  I  may  soon 
be  able  to  congratulate  you." 

If  she  desired  to  make  him  speak  of  Miss  Jean- 
ette,  she  was  mistaken. 

"You  may  not,"  he  returned  abruptly. 

He  knew  Mrs.  Dudley  well  and  disliked  her. 
Something  in  her  face  and  manner,  and  what  she 
had  mentioned,  made  him  uncomfortable.  He  said 
good-by  and  went  on  to  his  office.  He  unlocked 
it  and  went  in.  His  clerk  had  left  a  number  of 
letters  on  his  table.  None  of  them  were  very  re 
assuring.  The  people  from  whom  he  had  bought  the 
river-frontage,  in  his  hope  of  adding  the  strip  Mrs. 
Trescot  had  taken  from  him,  were  urgent  for  pay 
ment  of  interest  upon  a  mortgage  left  on  the  prop 
erty.  There  were  other  claims  as  pressing:  notice 
of  a  note  gone  to  protest,  two  unpaid  bills  for  the 
schooling  of  his  daughter.  He  tossed  the  papers 
aside,  and,  turning  over  his  other  letters  in  eager 
haste,  fell  upon  one  in  a  hand  he  knew  and  loved. 
He  tore  it  open  and  read: 

"DEAR  SIR: 

"After  seeing  you  I  spent  some  of  the  most  mis 
erable  hours  a  not  too  happy  life  has  brought  me. 
I  was  wretched  because  I  felt  that  you  might  not 
have  been  able  to  be  entirely  truthful.  I  had  to 
learn  more  than  I  could  expect  you  to  tell.  My 
whole  life  was  at  stake.  Where  I  love  I  must  also 
respect,  and  I  was  in  an  agony  of  doubt.  I  could 
not  stand  it.  I  went  to  St.  Ann,  and  there  gathered 


372  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

from  various  sources  all  that  men  knew  of  that  one 
sad  matter  of  which  you  talked  to  me.  I  heard  too 
much  for  my  own  happiness.  I  thought  it  all  over 
with  such  grief  as  it  pains  me  to  remember;  and, 
with  every  desire  to  be  just,  I  have  prayed  to  be 
rightly  guided,  and  now  I  must  tell  you  that  I  can 
never  marry  you. 

"I  shall  give  no  further  explanations.  The  let 
ter  I  inclose,  hard  and  cruel  as  it  is,  would  have 
been  enough.  I  will  never  see  you  again,  and  this  is 
final.  What  this  decision  costs  me  you  can  never 
know.  May  God  guide  and  guard  you!  Forgive 
me  the  pain  this  letter  will  inflict  on  you.  It  cannot 
be  greater  than  what  it  costs  me. 
11  Yours  truly, 

"JEANETTE  WILSON. 

"JOHN  GREYHURST,  Esq." 

He  turned  with  sudden  anger  to  the  inclosed  let 
ter  from  Mrs.  Trescot.  He  read  that  also.  He  let 
it  fall  and  lay  back  in  his  chair.  As  he  read,  the 
remembrance  of  the  young  man  walking  toward  him, 
with  the  smile  of  what  he  had  taken  to  be  triumph, 
came  back  to  him.  He  looked  up  and  saw  once  more 
the  silvery  phantom,  for  some  weeks  absent  at  times 
or  indistinct.  It,  too,  was  smiling.  He  took  up 
Jeanette  Wilson's  letter  and  read  it  and  re-read  it. 
When  at  last  he  laid  it  down  the  paper  was  wet 
from  his  sweating  hands.  He  knew  her  too  well  to 
have  the  slightest  hope.  She  herself  could  never 
have  had  any  conception  of  the  passion  with  which 
he  loved  her,  nor  could  she  have  fully  appreciated 
what  to  him  would  be  this  ending  of  his  hopes  for 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  373 

a  life  that  would  atone  for  the  past  and  satisfy  her 
ideals.  And  this  was  that  woman's  work!  He 
cursed  her  with  oaths  too  dreadful  to  repeat.  She 
had  brought  him  to  the  verge  of  ruin,  had  tortured 
him  into  impossibility  of  forgetfulness,  and  now 
she  had  taken  away  from  him  the  one  real  love  of 
his  unhappy  life. 

He  rose,  seeing  the  face  as  before.  "My  God!" 
he  cried,  staring  at  the  phantom,  "George  Trescot, 
you  ought  to  thank  me!"  As  he  stood  up  he  stag 
gered  with  a  return  of  the  old  vertigo,  and  seized 
a  chair  back  until  it  passed  away.  It  did  not  now 
alarm  him.  He  caught  up  his  traveling-cap,  and 
as  he  passed  out  left  the  door  open.  In  the  street 
he  was  recognized  by  two  or  three  men.  One  said, 
"He  has  been  drinking."  He  went  on  his  way, 
turning  down  West  Street  toward  his  house,  which, 
in  his  absence,  had  been  closed.  Walking  rapidly, 
he  went  past  the  church  at  the  corner,  and  crossed 
to  the  south  side  of  the  street.  Kent  had  just  come 
out  of  his  study  and  stood  still,  enjoying  the  splen 
dor  of  scarlet  above  the  setting  sun,  and  the  strange 
colors  cast  on  the  yellow  waters  of  the  mighty  river 
below.  It  was  unusual,  and,  becoming  more  and 
more  intense,  was  changing  from  moment  to  mo 
ment. 

Kent  wondered  if  Susan  Hood  were  feeling  the 
mysterious  awe  which  for  him  vast  masses  of  red 
created.  No  other  color  so  affected  him.  He  wished 
her  to  share  with  him  the  solemn  beauty  of  the 
fading  day,  and  while  hastening  to  find  her  at  her 
home,  he  saw  Greyhurst  in  front  of  him. 

Glad  of  an  early  chance  to  free  his  mind,   he 


374  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

quickened  his  pace  and  overtook  him.  He  said,  as 
he  joined  him: 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Greyhurst." 

Without  turning  his  head,  the  man  beside  him 
said,  "Good  evening,"  and  leaving  him,  abruptly 
crossed  the  street. 

Kent  was  surprised,  and  said  to  himself,  "He 
must  have  heard,  but  how  could  he  have  heard?" 

With  increase  of  interest  he  saw  Greyhurst  stop, 
look  over  at  Mrs.  Trescot 's,  and  pass  on.  Still  more 
amazed,  he,  too,  went  by  the  house  and,  pausing, 
observed  Greyhurst  go  up  his  own  steps  and,  as  it 
seemed,  try  the  door.  Apparently  finding  himself 
unable  to  enter,  he  went  around  the  house,  through 
the  garden,  and  was  lost  to  view.  Kent  thought 
it  all  rather  odd ;  but,  like  the  man  on  the  main  street, 
concluded  that  Greyhurst  must  have  been  drinking, 
and  turned  back  to  seek.  Susan  Hood. 

The  March  day  in  this  warm  clime  was  already 
rich  with  the  young  buds  of  spring.  He  picked  an 
opening  rose,  and,  ringing  the  bell,  stood  at  the 
door,  left  open  for  the  cooler  air  of  evening  to  sweep 
through  the  hall.  He  saw  how  the  vast  flood  of 
scarlet  to  westward  was  slowly  darkening  to  orange. 

The  maid  said  Miss  Susan  had  just  come  in  and 
was  up-stairs.  Mrs.  Trescot  was  in  the  parlor.  He 
hesitated  a  moment  and  then  went  in. 

Mrs.  Trescot  was  seated  at  the  western  window  in 
a  listless  attitude,  her  hands  in  her  lap.  She  turned 
as  he  -entered  saying,  "What  a  glory  of  color!" 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "but  I  do  not  like  it.  I  dislike 
red.  I  always  did,  even  when  a  child." 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  375 

"Well,"  he  said,  smiling,  "Nature  is  generously 
respectful;  she  is  shifting  her  scenery." 

"And  then,"  she  said,  "it  will  be  night,  and  I 
do  not  love  darkness.  I  should  like  to  live  in  endless 
daylight." 

He  thought  singular  both  her  moody  manner  and 
the  feeling  she  expressed. 

"The  Northland  would  suit  you  for  half  the 
year,  but  not  me.  I  hope  Miss  Hood  did  not  miss 
the  sunset." 

"I  do  not  know." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence, — the  woman 
gazing  at  the  slowly  darkening  pall  above  the  dy 
ing  day,  the  man  resolute  to  fulfil  a  long-held 
purpose. 

"I  do  not  know  whether  you  can  understand  the 
great  pleasure  you  gave  me  the  other  day  when  you 
said  I  have  some  likeness  to  my  cousin.  It  has  been 
noticed  by  others,  but  for  you  to  see  it  meant  much 
to  me.  If  in  all  ways  I  could  be  like  him  I  should 
be  well  satisfied  with  myself." 

"You  are  like  him,"  she  said,  turning  toward 
him.  "It  pleased  me,  and  I  wondered  that  I  had 
not  seen  it  before.  It  is  in  manner  more  than  in 
face." 

He  returned  earnestly :  "May  not  that  give  me  the 
privilege  of  taking  with  you  a  liberty  greater  than 
our  brief  acquaintance  justifies?" 

"Oh,  yes,  if  you  want  to."  She  would  have  said 
no  in  some  form  if  there  had  not  been  something 
sadly  familiar  in  the  grave  gentleness  of  Kent's 
approach;  something  which  forbade  her  to  deny; 


376  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

him.  She  was  deeply  moved  as,  in  the  lessening 
light,  she  heard  him  say: 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  as  a  man,  not  as  a  clergy 
man.  ' ' 

' '  Go  on, "  she  returned  faintly. 

11  Thank  you.  You  cannot  know— you  cannot 
have  known — the  pain  you  have  given  to  Miss  Susan 
and  to  the  many  whom  you  have  helped  in  St.  Ann. 
May  I  not  ask  you  to  think  how  it  will  end.  I 
should  feel  glad,  for  you  and  others,  that  it  should 
end." 

"Yes,  it  must  end.  I  fear  that  now  it  is  at  an 
end." 

Her  voice  lost  its  languor.  She  ceased  to  regard 
either  the  sunset  or  the  man,  and  sat  up,  a  little 
excited,  looking  straight  in  front  of  her. 

"  If , "  she  continued,  *  *  it  had  not  been  at  an  end,  I 
do  not  think  I  should  have  been  willing  to  listen  to 
you.  I  have  allowed  no  one  to  interfere  with  my 
actions— not  even  my  sister ;  but  now  I  do  not  care.  I 
have  made  that  man  suffer.  I  have  taken  from  him 
the  power  to  forget.  I  have  ruined  him  financially, 
and  I  believe— yes,  I  am  sure— that  I  have  taken 
from  him  the  love  of  a  woman ;  and  now  you  ask  me 
how  it  will  end !  If  you  had  talked  to  me  about  my 
soul,  and  of  the  sin  of  punishing  a  murderer,  I 
should  have  laughed  at  you.  You  did  not.  You 
have  done  what  you  think  a  duty.  You  have  talked 
as  George  would  have  done,  and  so  I  answer  that  I 
know  nothing  more  I  can  do.  If  there  were  any 
thing  I  could  do  to  injure  or  to  punish,  I  should  do 
it  eagerly.  There  is  nothing." 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  377 

"And,"  he  said,  "are  you  satisfied?" 

"No,  I  am  not.  If  I  could  fill  his  days  with  grief 
like  mine,— oh,  to  his  latest  hour,— if  I  could  make 
his  nights,  like  mine,  one  long  anguish  of  yearning 
and  unrest,  I  should  be  satisfied. ' ' 

He  touched  the  thin,  white  hand  which  lay  on  her 
knee.  He  made  no  other  reply.  The  malady  was 
past  his  helping.  She  turned  and  looked  at  him 
steadily.  A  certain  tender  sweetness  in  his  silent 
failure  to  respond,  some  fresh  recognition  of  re 
semblance,  disturbed  her  as  she  said : 

"For  good  or  ill,  I  suppose  it  is  at  an  end." 

Then,  as  he  heard  a  heavy  footfall  behind  him, 
she  was  on  her  feet.  John  Greyhurst  was  standing 
in  the  doorway.  Tall,  broad-shouldered,  pale,  and 
with  eyes  deeply  congested,  he  came  quickly  to  the 
middle  of  the  room  and  stood  still  as  Mrs.  Trescot 
leaped  to  her  feet  and  faced  him. 

Kent  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm.  "This,"  he  said, 
"is  the  last  house  you  should  dare  to  enter." 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  Mrs.  Trescot,  faintly; 
and  then,  in  sudden  anger,  "Out  of  this,  murderer- 
go!" 

He  shook  off  Kent's  arm  and  said  in  unnaturally 
measured  tones: 

"No ;  this  is  my  hour,  not  yours.  For  these  many 
months  you  have  driven  me  to  despair.  You  have 
taken  from  me,  at  last,  all  that  was  left  to  me— 
a  woman's  love.  I  am  here  to  end  it— to  settle  my 
debt." 

As  he  spoke,  and  his  hand  dropped  to  his  pocket, 
Kent  instantly  threw  himself  before  him.  The 


378  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

woman  stood  still,  glad  of  the  swift  coming  of 
death. 

With  his  left  arm  Greyhurst  threw  Kent  violently 
from  him  across  the  room,  and  as  the  young  man 
fell,  stunned  for  the  moment,  he  covered  her  with 
his  revolver.  She  stood  motionless. 

" Thank  you,"  she  said;  "I  am  glad— glad  to 
die!" 

He  laughed.  "You  fool!"  he  cried,  and  turning 
the  pistol  to  his  temple,  fired.  His  arm  dropped  in 
jerks.  For  a  moment  he  stood,  staring,  and  then  fell 
as  a  tree  falls,  shaking  the  room  with  his  bulk. 

The  woman  staggered  back,  caught  behind  her 
with  both  hands  the  edge  of  a  table,  and  stared  at 
the  man  at  her  feet— dead. 

As  the  servants  ran  in  and  out  again,  screaming, 
Kent  was  on  his  feet.  He  knelt  beside  Greyhurst, 
and  then  looked  up  as  Susan  ran  in  and  stood  still, 
terrified. 

"Is  he  dead?"  asked  Constance. 

"Yes,  he  is  dead." 

"Then  he  is  gone,  and  I  am  alive.  Will  you  have 
it  taken  away— quick,  quick— out  of  my  house?" 

Kent  caught  her  as  she  staggered  to  the  door, 
swaying  and  crying,  "Take  him  away,  take  him 
away,  out  of  this  house— anywhere!"  She  pushed 
Kent  aside,  passed  into  the  study,  and,  as  Susan 
followed  her,  fell  on  to  a  lounge.  The  house  filled 
with  a  crowd  of  neighbors.  Susan,  always  most  quiet 
when  others  lost  their  heads,  shut  the  door.  Kent, 
having  said  a  word  of  explanation  to  those  in  the 
parlors,  reentered  the  study. 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  379 

Constance  was  breathing  fast,  her  eyes  wide  open. 
Leaving  a.  scared  maid  beside  her,  Kent  led  Susan 
into  the  hall,  and  in  as  few  words  as  possible  told 
her  what  had  happened. 

"And  this  is  the  end,"  she  said.  "How  terrible! 
My  poor  Conny!  Did  he  mean  to  kill  her,  Regi 
nald?" 

"I  thought  so  for  a  moment;  I  do  not  know.  I 
struck  my  head  as  he  threw  me,  and  what  followed 
I  did  not  fully  see.  I  will  go  for  Dr.  Eskridge  and 
send  for  General  Averill.  Shall  you  mind  my  leav 
ing  you  alone  with  her?" 

"Oh,  no;  I  think  there  is  no  danger.  She  seems 
conscious.  I  will  get  her  up  to  bed.  Come  back 
soon. ' ' 

As  he  went  out  he  cast  his  eyes  on  the  sword  upon 
the  table,  the  Bible  with  its  marking  glove,  the  dead 
flower-petals,  the  sacredly  guarded  room.  "I  won 
der,"  he  thought,  as  he  hurried  up  the  street,  "what 
this  woman  would  have  been  had  George  Trescot 
lived." 

As  he  hastened  to  find  the  doctor  he  sought  to 
recall  just  what  had  happened.  Surely  the  man 
meant  to  kill  Constance  Trescot  and  then  himself. 
She  most  plainly  was  glad  to  die.  Yes,  she  had  said 
so;  on  which  he  had  turned  the  pistol  on  himself, 
saying,  "You  fool!"  What  did  he  mean?  Did  he 
not  want  to  kill  her  because  she  wished  to  die? 
"Ah,  poor  lady!"  he  said.  "Perhaps  George  Tres 
cot  was  fortunate— and  my  poor  Susan!" 


[ONTRARY  to  what  the  doctor  and  Su 
san  expected,  Constance  came  out  of 
her  dazed  state  in  a  few  hours.  She 
asked  quickly  if  they  had  taken  it 
away.  When  assured  as  to  this,  she 
seemed  at  ease  and  put  no  other  questions.  Although 
her  mind  was  clear,  she  spoke  little,  and  was  ap 
parently  indifferent  to  everything.  She  asked,  how 
ever,  after  a  few  days  to  be  taken  to  her  Beverly 
home.  Kent  made  all  the  needed  arrangements  and 
went  with  them.  This  seemed  to  excite  no  surprise 
in  the  mind  of  Constance;  she  accepted  everything 
in  an  apathetic  way,  and  when  Kent  was  leaving 
them  at  the  end  of  their  journey,  said  good-by  list 
lessly  and  with  no  word  of  thanks.  For  a  month  or 
more  she  lost  flesh  and  vigor  daily,  so  that  Susan 
thought  that  she  would  surely  find  the  relief  of 
death. 

In  August  she  began  to  recover  her  strength,  but 
not  her  looks.     She  had  lived  many  years  in  one, 
and,  except  for  the  still  lovely  eyes,  had  little  left 
of  her  former  beauty.     The  framework  of  her  face 
was  on  a  scale  which  needed  the  fullness  of  health, 
and  this  she  had  lost  forever. 
As  she  slowly  regained  her  strength  she  turned 
380 


CONSTANCE  TRESCOT  381 

anew  to  Susan  for  the  only  society  she  cared  to  have, 
and  by  degrees  taxed  more  and  more  heavily  the 
time  and  attention  of  the  self-sacrificing  sister.  She 
began  at  last  to  read,  or  liked  better  to  be  read  to ; 
but  never  returned  to  her  music,  and  never  spoke  of 
the  Averills,  or  of  Kent,— nor,  indeed,  of  any  one 
in  St.  Ann.  Neither  did  she  ever  mention  George 
Trescot.  So  long  as  she  had  been  actively  employed 
in  thinking  of  means  of  ruining  Greyhurst,  she  had 
asked  of  Susan  no  more  attention  and  care  than  was 
easy  and  pleasant  to  give.  When  once  her  pursuit 
had  ended,  and  one  dominating  idea  had  ceased  to 
occupy  her  mind,  she  began  to  enlarge  the  boundaries 
of  those  despotic  claims  which  the  feeble  or  suffering 
sometimes  make  upon  the  unselfish.  It  is  probable 
that  Constance  was  not  fully  aware  of  this  avarice  of 
affection  which  caused  her  to  accept  or  grasp  and 
use  the  service  of  the  sister,  and  to  overesteem  the 
love  she  herself  gave  in  return.  At  first  Susan 
looked  upon  it  all  as  evidence  of  a  revival  of  Con 
stance's  former  affection.  She  was  unwilling  to 
be  alone,  she  desired  no  occupation,  and  would  not 
ride  or  walk  far.  What  she  liked  best  was  to  sit 
in  silence  with  Susan  reading  aloud  to  her  in  the 
garden,  or  to  drive  for  hours  in  the  carriage.  To 
escape  from  her  company  was  so  difficult  that  Susan 
found  only  those  hours  her  own  in  which  Constance 
slept.  At  times  she  wondered  whether  or  not  this 
jealous  absorption  of  a  life  would  not  soon  or  late 
have  been  applied  to  George  Trescot. 

As  the  warm  summer  days  came  and  went,  Su 
san  was  made  to  feel  more  and  more  plainly  that  she 


382  CONSTANCE  TKESCOT 

was  becoming  the  slave  of  exactions  which  had  in 
them  something  morbid.  To  her  alarm,  she  began 
also  to  suspect  that  incessant  care  of  a  depressed 
and  too  dependent  woman  might  prove  to  be  a 
dangerous  tax  on  health,  and  recognized  at  last  with 
some  alarm  that  she  herself  was  consciously  losing 
vigor. 

When  making  vain  efforts  to  assert  her  indepen 
dence  she  was  met  by  unlooked-for  difficulties.  In 
her  uncle's  house,  as  the  elder  sister,  Susan  had 
exerted  more  or  less  authority ;  but  now  she  had  the 
feeling  that  Constance  was,  as  indeed  she  looked, 
the  older  sister.  By  degrees  Susan  also  learned  that 
Constance  relied  on  her  misfortunes  and  her  long 
illness  to  insure  to  her  an  excess  of  sympathetic  af 
fection  and  unremitting  service.  The  discoveries 
thus  made  troubled  the  less  selfish  sister,  and  her 
good  sense  made  plain  to  her  that  to  permit  limit 
less  use  of  this  form  of  devotion  was  to  commit 
suicide  of  health  and  to  sacrifice  more  than  herself. 
There  was  one  escape  possible,  and  of  this  she  knew 
that  at  some  time  she  should  have  to  speak,  for  her 
health  and  all  that  was  once  hers  alone  she  felt 
were  no  longer  to  be  risked  without  unfairness  to  one 
more  dear  to  her  than  Constance.  Over  and  over, 
when  approaching  this  subject,  her  courage  failed 
her. 

When  she  chanced  to  mention,  even  in  the  most 
casual  way,  the  man  whom  she  had  promised  to 
marry,  Constance  said  at  once:  "You  must  know, 
Susan,— you  ought  to  know,— that  I  have  no  desire 
to  hear  of  him,  or  of  any  one  in  St.  Ann.  I  think 


CONSTANCE  TEESCOT  383 

you  show  small  consideration  for  my  feelings/' 
Although  aware  that  her  sister  and  Kent  corre 
sponded,  and  that  letters  came  and  went  daily,  she 
took  no  more  interest  in  it  than  she  did  in  whatever 
was  outside  of  her  own  immediate  and  limited  life. 
It  was  to  Susan  an  almost  inconceivable  condition, 
and  she  was  well  aware  that  not  only  must  it  come 
to  an  end,  but  that  to  hear  of  her  decision  would  be 
to  Constance  a  painful  awakening. 

At  last,  when,  in  September,  Constance  seemed 
still  better,  Susan  knew  that  she  must  speak  out, 
and  frankly.  Constance  furnished  the  opportunity. 
They  were  seated  at  evening  in  the  garden  above  a 
quiet  sea.  Constance  said:  "I  have  been  thinking, 
Susan,  about  the  winter  and  what  would  be  best  for 
me.  The  doctor  talks  about  Algiers.  How  would 
that  do?  It  is  time  I  made  my  plans.  I  do  not 
suppose  you  care  where  we  go,  so  long  as  we  are  to 
gether.  ' ' 

For  a  moment  Susan  made  no  reply;  then  she 
said:  "Let  us  put  that  aside  for  a  moment.  I  have 
long  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  Conny,  about  another 
matter,  but  you  have  never  been  willing  to  listen. 
While  you  were  so  weak  I  felt  that  you  must  not 
be  troubled  by  what  I  knew  you  must  some  day 
know.  I  am  engaged  to  Reginald  Kent,  and  we  are 
to  be  married  late  in  October.  You  must  have 
known,  Conny,  that  it  would  be." 

Constance  heard  her  with  an  appearance  of  in 
difference. 

' '  Oh,  I  saw  there  was  something ;  but  you  cannot 
really  mean  to  leave  me.  You  are  all  I  have,  all 


384  CONSTANCE  TRESCOT 

I  care  for.  It  is  simply  out  of  the  question.  You 
must  see  that  your  duty  lies  with  me." 

"Yes,  dear,  I  see  that;  and  we  hope  that  you  will 
live  with  us.  Reginald  is  to  have  a  parish  near 
Boston." 

"I  will  never  consent  to  it.  Must  I  always  be 
sacrificed  ? ' ' 

"If  you  mean  that  you  will  not  consent  to  my 
marriage,  you  have  no  right  to  say  that;  if  you 
mean  not  to  live  with  us,  I  shall  be  sorry.  I  do 
not  think  that  you  should  have  spoken  as  you  have 
done.  You  have  had  from  me  all  that  I  could  give, 
and,  dear,  you  do  not  know  how  much  you  claim, 
nor  do  you  seem  to  see  that  even  with  my  sound 
health  I  am  not  fit  to  be  and  do  what  you  expect  of 
me— in  fact,  that  it  is  I  who  am  sacrificed." 

"Then  you  think  I  am  selfish?" 

"I  think,  dear,  that  in  your  sorrow  and  weakness 
you  need  more  than  I  can  give." 

"And  you  intend  to  marry  that  man  and  leave 
me?" 

"I  mean  to  marry  Reginald  Kent." 

"Then  I  shall  find  a  companion  and  go  abroad," 
she  said;  and,  rising,  went  away  into  the  house. 


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